My favourite nights spent with my dad almost all look the same.
We’re seated outside on the porch, he’s puffing on a Dunhill Light, chasing each drag with a gulp of the scotch he’s been swirling in his hands.
I’m seated cross-legged on a bench, too busy to care about his lungs or his liver. I’m too busy because I’m listening to him grapple with life’s big questions, his nose sometimes flaring with excitement.
“Does God exist?” “Do we exercise free will or are we slaves to our genes?” “What is time, really?”
Inevitably, the conversation turns to relationships. The trials of monogamy.
My parents were heading towards divorce for a long time – since at least my early teenage years, but probably even earlier.
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