My Model of God  − February, 1992

He comes in late, carrying with him the cold night air. He is covered grease and his smile cuts through his weariness. I run to him and he lifts me into the sky, wrapping his arms, strong like granite, tightly around my tiny body. They are God's arms and they swallow me whole. I slip my own skinny pair around his neck and breathe him in. It is the smell of motor oil and sweat that I find, of hard work and a long day, of someone that comands my complete adulation and respect. His bearded face scratches mine, but I don't care. He is my father and I am happy.

He carries me to my bed and I am asleep before the blanket reaches my chest.