letters from father

My father is an artiste.

My father speaks: Yiddish, German, some kind of strange French that make native French speakers think he is mentally disabled, Spanish, and his own creation of English.

For a party he once cooked a huge four fish tureen (including the heads) which had a gelatinous mold outer coating. He told the children there that it was made of whale brains.

My father once emerged from his stained glass studio bleeding from both palms. I am dead serious. He said he cut himself on a glass piece, but I have my suspicions. After all, he dreamt about Salvador Dali the night before he died.

Naturally, whenever I have a big decision to make, I call my father

And he writes to me.