I grew to resent the way my father treated his furniture like children, and his children like furniture.
My father once nearly came to blows with a female dinner guest about whether a particular patch of embroidery was fuchsia or magenta. But the infinite gradations of color in a fine sunset - from salmon to canary to midnight blue - left him wordless.
It was not a triumphal return. Home, as I had known it, was gone.
Grief takes many forms, including the absence of grief
She has given me a way out.
Well, I'm always working on my comic strip and trying to, you know, keep cranking that out.