My father the policeman; the protector of the people. If only he had known. He was protecting them from me. How blind can a father be towards his own blood. How many times as I kid did I see him take away homeless guitarists, the musical gypsies, and silent performers. I saw the look in his eyes then, the look of disdain and ignorance. I guess that's what drew me in -to understand what was so wrong with them trying to create something, and sharing it with the world around them. I grew distant with him. I knew he would never except me for who I was. I didn't want money or fame -I wanted just to create and share like I'd seen so many times as a kid, peering out the window of my father's police car. It always ended in destruction. My father would shoo them away like flies. He began drinking when I left at 14. I wonder if he knew... That I became the thing he hated so much. In his will he only left me his hunting knife. Maybe a last ditch effort to make me be a MAN in his eyes. It sits on my book shelf. I sometimes wonder If I would be happier not doing what I love, just to have a Father's love for one minute....
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