I have One Memory of my father

I have one memory of my father Who was not my dad There was a father, he left. There was no dad. There were men who tried to be. There were men who could’ve tried to be. There were, perhaps, men who might’ve tried to be. These efforts, if they existed, went unnoticed by me. Like I, by my father. I found out more than my lone memory. I discovered he was a phlebotomist - this means someone who draws blood. But that is not how I discovered that he drew blood. I found out that a recipe sometimes made in a Sunday oven by my mom was his. Or, more truly, from his work. I never felt it as his or from him. I simply knew that it was. In my brain. In my heart. Far different places. Far different meanings. A world apart. Like my father. After he left. When I was 8. After I was eight we never ate well again. Again and again after he left for something, leaving us nothing, we never ate well. After I was eight, the eating changed. No more cinnamoned applesauce - chunky in a steaming, massive pot upon an aging olive stove stirred by the wooden spoon which one day would come to pieces on my flesh. As a smaller family, we suffered. We struggled. We drew blood.