by Rosemary Serluca
I do not have a complete image of my father. It is shattered. Smashed into jagged pieces of broken glass. With quivering hands, I lift fragments. Desperate to piece His form. But I fail, for there is no likeness from which to draw. One wrong move, and there, look, my skin rips. And I bleed. Bleed from the need to touch these forbidden shards. Wishing there was no such need. Damn this addiction. To see him. Ignore, rebuke, kill, love and forgive him. Fragments of a memory. Fragments of a love. Pieces of a man I will never fully know.
Writer's excerpt courtesy NYWIFT (NYWIFT.ORG)