He had never met his father. All he had was the picture in his wallet. A worn and creased picture, from when his father had joined the army at 19, when his mom had been pregnant with him.
What happened next is the stuff of family lore. His father got into a fight with a sergeant on his second day of boot camp and washed out with a dishonorable discharge. He disappeared off the <em>Sunshine Special</em> on the way home, and they hadn’t heard much from him since.
His mama brought him up right, or as right as she could. She was tempted by the bottle, it was true, and there were times when they weren’t sure if they could make the next rent check, but it always turned out right in the end.
Every once in a while he would get a package in the mail from his father, 15 bucks for his 7th birthday, all in singles, a postcard with a naughty lady on the front for his 10th, and a baseball glove, slightly worn for his 15th. Nevermind that he never played baseball, it still was a prized possession.
How can a man be so despised, and yet the few gifts he gives is so treasured? The son often wondered that about his dad.
Now, nearing his 25th birthday, he had finally tracked his father down. He kept house in a broken down old motel in New Orleans. Turns out that’s where since the day he had hopped off the train.
The son sat in the bar below the motel, nursing a beer and watching the door. The bartender had needed a bit of help remembering when his father got home, but had finally told the son what time to come back if he wanted to see him.
It wouldn’t be long now, the son nodded as he sipped his beer. Won’t be long at all.
Kuunari 
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