Kindra M. Austin continues a tale in which the living and the dead can both be lost.
Out of Orbit/Paradise
I hate the day you were born. Because Dad’s absence crushes me, too. I haven’t forgotten his voice. Low, and warm like a dram of scotch whiskey, neat. When I was a kid, I would listen to his stories and lessons for hours and hours, and I’d never grow bored or distracted. One of my favorite things to do was ride beside him down country roads with the oldies station playing, listening to him talk about the sociological and political issues that inspired and provoked his favorite folk song heroes. Dad always sounded like the smartest man in the entire universe. I was proud because out of all the dads in existence, he was mine. And then he wasn’t.
I wish I didn’t want him back. Or you, little sister. It hurts too much to want. And it’s too damn hard to figure out…
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