The fresh grilled cheese sandwiches he used to cook for me. The kind that have two pieces of cheese and are golden brown on top. He always put a juicy ripe green dill pickle on the side. Only on the side. He did it perfectly so the pickle juice wouldn't touch the sandwich. I loved him for that. The smells of potpourri and fresh honey-roasted ham are redolent from those days. Ballroom dancing to Bruce Springsteen in the confines of his closet-sized room and then laughing and hugging for long periods of time. It's different now.

He is a man of 46 with a smile of the most innocent angel. His eyes shine big and his hair is slightly silver coated. He is a singer of the most beautiful songs and a speaker of the most brilliant lies. Blackouts occur daily, alcohol intake occurs ceaselessly. Love. He gives love but whether I receive it is a totally different story. It's hard to understand his world inside a bottle. The smell of fresh whiskey lingering on his breath. The scattered line this woozy man walks upon. I am living with a feeling of utter malice. He is the man who causes me pain. The man I have been physically detached from for five years, yet emotionally destroyed with for the same. He is the man who swims and breathes in his drink and sprays words to me when he comes up for air. Enveloped with insecurity, a troubled dipsomaniac, longing to see his daughter.

The man, my father, will long forever. c