I was walking through the rain when one of the guys told an off-color joke. It was every shade of wrong juxtaposed to ugly truths amid unspoken taboos. The joke fell like a hammer and I barked a laugh. In that moment I rode a swell of relief. Yet as that wave broke and the sound hit my ears, a memory came with it; I heard my fathers laugh. Sobering and stifling, to be sure, but those two swam with no small amount of solace either. Despite the years on our rollercoaster of a relationship, the constant cuts at my character and replays of my failings, there was still an echo of laughter.

Tom Thumb was there too. He was the little guy my father would draw on my diminutive digit. I remember his face well. Tom’s many looks were mere swipes of ink so similar to my Father’s handwriting; those drawings transcendent, words in wriggling lines that drew three smiles. In that moment I knew how I’d remember him. Not as the belligerent bully taking emotional potshots, but as he was before painful mistakes polluted our waters to poison word and thought.

I will miss him.