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She could've gone younger.
She could've gone somewhere with more zeros.
She could've gone easier.

Every culture had access to their own ingredients, their own instruments, their own materials.

Adults still struggle with it.

Screaming "be grateful" at a kid doesn't work.

Ran, played, yelled as little boys.

We were children until
we weren't.

For years, I struggled with my daughters having a stepfather.

Not his fault. He didn't do anything wrong.

I went in for the bro hug. Bro was like: Damn. Your pecs are firm. Hey now... you noticed?

I peaked in 3rd grade.

I've been trying to get back to that place ever since. No luck.

I peaked in 3rd grade.

I've been trying to get back to that place ever since. No luck.

I was reminded that I have always been a writer and a poet.

Life stacked in on top of them, decade by decade. I forgot who I was underneath all of it.

I was having a sweet dance with Anastacia, my youngest daughter. Somewhere in that dance, something broke open. When the song ended I kissed her, then went looking for a dark corner to let the tears flow.

I try to visit my parents as often as I can. Most times I can't. And when I do, it takes real mental prep. I walk out depressed, shaken, sometimes it takes hours to come back to myself. The energy in that house has always been... a lot.

Our father-daughter dance took us both back to those younger days of dancing our bachatas. We were both babies.