I don’t know your name, but you killed my father on June 9, 1973, in Stockton, California. My father was thirty-two years old then; I was ten. If he had lived, he would have been 74 on November 29th.
I am a 51-year-old woman now; my father has not been with me for most of my life, and yet I still feel his presence; I still miss him. When I was ten, and he was killed, I hated you. In fact, I hated you for many, many years. Somehow I got it in my head that you were a drunk driver and killed him while driving drunk. Perhaps someone told me that, or maybe it’s just what a child creates, to make sense of a senseless world. Admittedly, that story helped me for a while. It gave me a place to focus my…
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