As I grew older, my father grew younger. I was 17 when my father ran away from home, leaving the television on behind him, the remote control lying at the base of the recliner that was still extended. I was supposed to be looking after him that afternoon as he sat in his recliner watching the stock market channel, staring at the numbers, forgetting each and every sign and symbol. I remember trying to keep my heavy lids from falling but finally giving in to the comfort of a woven, cotton blanket and familiar warm pillow. And when I finally awoke that afternoon, I saw that he was gone.
