I don't know who you are, or where you came from, or if I'll ever see you again. Sometimes I'm not even sure you're real. And whatever did happen between us, gradually it's all being taken from me.
But l still have this: Every fourth Friday I stare at my dad in the dark. I see this person, now at the end of his life, who treats me like he brought me into this world when he didn't, who still cries when my own tears have long since dried up completely. And for those few seconds I love him so much it hurts—so much I can hardly stand it. Then I come home and I see your picture...
...And the exact same thing happens.
That's all I need to know.
But l still have this: Every fourth Friday I stare at my dad in the dark. I see this person, now at the end of his life, who treats me like he brought me into this world when he didn't, who still cries when my own tears have long since dried up completely. And for those few seconds I love him so much it hurts—so much I can hardly stand it. Then I come home and I see your picture...
...And the exact same thing happens.
That's all I need to know.
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