My old man changed like his coats that hung behind the door. Sometimes dark, sometimes light. His shirts never matched the coats, neither was he always right. Always right is mostly wrong, I guess. A man changes clothes like snake sheds it’s skin, only when it’s necessary. I may be wrong but I don’t care about what’s right. Life has never been easy on him, evident from his words and the scars on my memories. He didn’t want my life to be like his. It isn’t and that’s the worst part.
My old man hated coats. But I like to remember it all this way: Something that didn’t exist but I wish it. Everything made sense that way.