“You used to call me Dad. Took you a while, and I didn’t make a big deal about it when you first said it because I didn’t want you to take it back, but damn, did it hurt in the best of ways.” He hit me with a side glance. “And then one day you stopped. Out of nowhere. And that hurt, too, but in the worst of ways.” I remembered the year, month, day, and second Clint referred to. The night I shot my rope all over his bedroom door, marking my territory, manifesting the future. No longer was he the pseudo father I’d come to know him as. He was more. And calling him Dad after that made me queasy.
Yikes on all of the bikes
