California III

I'm pretty sure my dad saved me that day on the beach only because my mom was laying right there and was screaming for me. My deepest, darkest thoughts are that if it had been just him and I, he would have let me drown. Finally making his way to somebody for help, knowing it was already too late, he would have conjured up tears and sorrow, and acted as if his love for me was the most precious gift he had ever been givin. My mother would have seen such agony and despair in him, yet found a way to make a life still. These are the thoughts I have never shared, never dared speak aloud, yet somewhere know them to be true. The fact is, he saved me. And the rest of my life began that day.
His name was George, A.K.A. Sonny. The man I knew as my father. That is until I turned 13 years old. That's another story though. I will jump ahead to Cleveland. I was 7 when we moved to Cleveland, with my little brother, George Jr. in tow. Again, I don't remember any of this. It's quite disturbing to know that I travelled across country for three days with a drunk and a four year old and remember not one road, or valley or truck stop or restaurant. Wow.