I leave in about an hour. This could be the last time I see Dad. Maybe not. I’ve thought the same thing whenever I’ve left since 1989. One day it will be true. Dad was 46 when I was born. My parents were separated by the time I went to school. Dad moved to England by the time I was 10. We’ve had contact since, but part of my wonders why I care. I must fulfill my duty, but caring is something entirely different. Dad is flawed. He rants. He has done the most unspeakable things to members of my family. I won’t even describe them here. I remember only a few things before he left our house: I remember camping with him. I remember jumping off his shoulders into the lake. I remember underdogs on the swing. I remember him watching Hockey Night in Canada on Saturday night. I remember him delivering pizza while on strike to make the ends meet. I remember my older brother having to call the neighbor (an RCMP officer) one night. I remember the tears and the fear. I asked Dad this week if he had good memories of his childhood. He said no. He said he tried to give us the childhood that he never had. I’d say he got only partway there. One of my friends has a quote in his office that says something like this: “There’s so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it’s hard to know what to make of us.” In Christian terms, you could say that there’s so much of the image of God in the most flawed human being, and so much potential for evil in the best person, that it’s hard to know which one will catch your eye. I’ll soon be on my way. Bye, Dad.