Little Lightbulbs

Sometimes I find myself waxing nostalgic about my father, more for the dad I know he could have been instead of the shadow he turned out to be. I remember, for instance, that he would sometimes strum his guitar singing "Can't Help Falling In Love" to me as the evening sun was fading. I also recall very fond memories of lazy summer days camping with my whole family, Dad and me on the boat, skipping rocks, sitting on the dock. But the warmth of those memories is punctured by the reality that my father was a father when it suited him, virtually abandoning me in my pre-teen years when I desperately needed him most. My father was a womanizer, alcoholic, recreational drug user and emotional and physical abuser. He had a lightning-fast temper that sparked at the smallest provocation, often exploding into rages that left deep wounds. But even as I write this, I don't feel anger; I feel a deep sadness. Because for all my father's failings, parts of him were lovable an