Drinking coffee. Laughing at old movies. Waking up early. Looking around the room when someone farts as if accusing everyone else. A warm hand on my shoulder. These form the forgotten dialect of my father. Passed down like intellectual heirlooms from a distant past that grows hazier and yet more potent as the years go by.
There are elements of my dad that have seemed to vanish. Wisps of him. I miss them though I can’t even name exactly what they are. He’s becoming the clay-form before a statue set in time. Molded more by feeling than accuracy. I know his smell. I remember his face. But little bits have gone away. Taken by time.
This photo was from the early days of moving out on my own. He came down for a visit. Always up for a trip. Looking for trouble or something to pass the time. Stephen Capen. Escapen. Escapism. A man without a destination destined for the horizon.