My Father's Project / PREFACE

A little introduction to what got me here.

I do not have many childhood memories of my father and me together.
My recollections of our shared time are scant and blurry.
They come to me like a fuzzy dream with the help of the old pictures my mother treasures in one of the wooden cabinets in the living room of our countryside home–the place where I spent the biggest chunk of my youth.
There is one particular memory, though, that is so clearly stuck in my brain, that I can’t seem to shrug it off even if I tried.
It’s so vivid and multidimensional, it feels like it happened just a few days ago–except it didn’t. It happened 27 years ago.
In some ways, this memory perfectly encapsulates our relationship. Or at least what our relationship looked like up until my late teens, early twenties even.