Arturo

Dad has no last name. His father left him and took his name, courage, and childhood. Dad cries when he listens to John Lennon, (father you left me but I never left you) stays up all night painting the images he’d otherwise be dreaming, a starless, moonlit night, and a black cat at the windowsill of an empty house. Dad ran away from home when he was fifteen. And then when I was seven years old he packed all our things and put a country of distance between us and his demons. He loves us but in his long silences I wonder if even we are his family – if on this soil and in this house he’s finally found comfort. That void, too, is an heirloom.