I woke up this morning after a slumber party night at my girlfriend's. We did the typical slumber party things, nail painting, magazines, dinner, wine. . . and now for some reason I cannot stop thinking about my father. Maybe it's because I'm being a bit childish slumber partying it up (on a school night no less), or because it was father's day this Sunday, or possibly the phone conversion between my new friend Elodie and her father this morning "Allô Papa". To curve my longing I decided to reread some of my Papa's poetry. I picture him like he looked in 1970s photographs . . . typing, rereading, and correcting his work with his perfect handwriting.
Today, this poem is my favorite:
1977
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