“Where the fuck are you?” I had yelled at my father. I don’t recall how the conversation started nor the twists and turns it got to that point. I just know that I was standing in an Italian restaurant, one of three side-by-side in a strip mall, yelling at my father, making a scene.
Except that’s not true. The last time I spoke with my father was months ago. We, along with my wife, my mom and a friend of my parents, were having a discussion about the troubles my wife and I are having purchasing a house. Shortly after that we had said our good byes as my parents were heading back home to Arizona. A few weeks later my father had died.
