I can't remember my father's funeral. How I felt, what I wore, who said what and why. I can't even say with certainty that I was actually there. What I do remember is Los Angeles in the aftermath, after what seemed like an earthquake and a raging hurricane. Birds kept singing, autumn winds carried the saphire sea to shore as if nothing had changed, as if everything was fine.
remember people smiling all around me as I walked up and down Sunset
wearing black inside and out. They were happy, oblivious, discussing
things that never mattered and never would because they had nothing to
fear. That's what I read from their plastic faces and careless minds.
I'm not alone. Everyone I know comes from a broken home, from families
torn apart by death or greed or violence. I wasn't alone and as time
passed I learned to live with the realization that knowing this didn't
just numb the pain - it made me happy.