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My father's spectacles were huge. They got in the way of everything. It was
embarrassing. As a child he would walk with me to the grocer. No one
passing on the street would look at us. That's how I learned about the heartrending
kindness of strangers. I couldn't bear to think about it. I would spend nights blindfolded,
walking through our family's pigeon coop, caressing the feathers of cooing birds.
When I turned fifteen, in the midst of the inferno called puberty, I left home.
I had the feeling, that love, electric yellow love, was my one and only destiny. I stowed
myself away on a boat called the Corona for no other reason than its name.
I slept for many days and nights, how many I could not tell, I was below deck.
I had procured a book on botany from my father's library, which I spent most of my time
pouring over. Wherever the good ship Corona landed, I was sure I'd have to know
what a calyx was, and how to speak elegantly on the topic of pollination. Love is simple,
I thought to myself each night before I fell to sleep. It seemed like months before
we finally struck land. With a soft thud, the Corona ended its journey, and I,
unbeknownst to its hardy crew, crept away into the night. Our port of call
had a familiar feeling. Empty, darkened shops, a few oil drums blazing in the night.
But all harbors feel like other harbors, I thought as I walked up a long winding road
to a house with a narrow, red door. I slipped my hand behind the lantern
and removed the skeleton key. My palms were sweaty. I could barely maneuver the key.
The door opened, revealing the interior of my home. Silhouetted in the doorway
was my father, mustache twitching, spectacles flashing in the flickering light.