Remember that time dad told us he’d give us each a dollar if we helped him with chores around the house? We were young, and so we agreed. At the end, when we had finished, he reached into his pocket for two separate dollars, but found only one. He was disgusted with us when we started fighting over it, and so ripped it in half and left. Dad never did handle family fights well. He always fled the scene. Now, so do you.
I must have been only five at the time, but it became very clear in that moment, that money was only a concept. One wrong move, one tear, and the value was gone forever.
I was crying. You were always better with me than you like to admit; you fixed the problem with scotch tape and walked with me down to the penny candy store.
It was a shoddy tape job, but the cashier looked at us with our tootsie rolls and jaw breakers in hand, my face still damp with tears, and accepted it anyway.
What I wonder now, more than a decade later, is what kind of tape it takes to put a family back together. What kind of tape does it take to hold you and dad close to us? We’ve lost our value, brother. But for you? I can be that cashier. Bring me the pieces, and I will accept your shoddy tape job.