Picture of my father...

The picture of my father inside my copy of Paul Auster's The Invention of Solitude... taken for a work ID card right after his shift that day, no doubt... a work horse totally drained of energy, sweaty, hair dishevelled ... my father, the non-present but great provider... the sixteen hour work day father... the endless toil of his work routine... thirty-five years... never missed a payment on the house... That picture... what it wants to say is "I gave it all... I am still giving it all..." He left it all at work... everything. I wonder if he ever had dreams beyond hitting the lottery. Looking at him in his coffin... how tired he looked, naturally... he looked as if he had just gotten off work. I could say it in a million different ways, but Auster again got ahead of me and wrote: "Work was the name of the country he lived in, and he was one of its greatest patriots." The picture speaks to me in a million different ways... the look is mesmerazing, the thousand yard stare...