The closest I came to touching my dad lives in my imagination.
In his dying days, my mother,
Pregnant, believes this third child will be a boy, wants to name it Peter.
I see my dad put his head on her tummy.
"Naw, this is a girl," he says through tired, sad eyes.
Tina Louise dribbled off his tongue like honey off a biscuit.
And I am tied to the ghost of a man like buttons on his favorite shirt.
My father, forever 42.
