I remember one day when I was very young, probably 5 or 6, I was sitting in the kitchen of my old house looking at the vinyl floor peeling up from the floor, the dirt collected around the baseboards, the old, half-working stove - then I looked up at my dad, who was washing dishes and looking out the windows and said, "I think I love you more than I love mom." I had been wanting to tell this to him for days ever since I had decided. I was really nervous, and didn't want him to be mad. He looked shocked and tried to explain that I shouldn't say that because mom works hard for us. I didn't believe him, and I don't think he believed himself.
Memories with him are becoming more and more elusive, and I'm glad when I can hold on to a few vivid ones.
