i feel some of the pride and grace and wonder a dad might feel knowing it was blind luck that happened to me. i wonder if my dad felt that with me. (nah.) he was more the stiff embarrassed dad type. i can't speak for him although who else will now he's dead. and i want to speak what i want him to say and it's my life anyway. let the dead bury the dead, life is for the living, and speech. silence is for the dead, and the living interpret.

i meant to say i was so proud of my boy on the corner by sip cafe meeting a family of two boys and a mom waiting for a dad to come. the littler boy was the same height as mister and a little dog-shy, and mister went right up and kissed him and i said he must really like you, he doesn't kiss many people. and the shyness disappeared. dad came out, a dad who i can imagine feels like i do with mister about his boys, and he shook my hand. when we crossed together to harold washington park we parted as friends, the boys calling "bye, copper, bye".