I have been gone a long time now. Long before you took your first breath. I left this world in my Seattle home, and there's no going back. I watch you even though you've never heard my voice. You don't know what my laugh sounded like, or how I said your name. Nobody gave you any recordings. All you have is that one picture of me - and even that one gets you in trouble, because in it I'm high out of my mind. That's all they let you keep, and they won't give you another. It makes me sick to see you get scolded for just trying to see your father's face. You live with my mom Wendy now. You and Wendy have a bad relationship. Your forced to sleep in the living room, you lie on a couch at night, looking up at a stained ceiling, trying to imagine my voice. You wonder if you sound like me. Sometimes I whisper but you can't hear. I'm trying, l swear. I remember my own life in this house. I was born in "67 and lived here 'til about 1984. It was hell by the end. At fifteen I couldn't take my dad anymore. I moved out, went to my grandparents' trailer for a while. Didn't stay long. 1982 to 1984 was like drifting. Relative to relative. Couch to couch. I was always leaving. No stability. No one really caring enough to pin me down. When I came back here in '84 my mom's boyfriend hated me. I failed at school, quit before I graduated-l was so close, just needed a push. Instead I was push out. I knew homelessness. I slept under bridges and felt concrete in my spine. That's where Something in the Way came from-even if some people say I made it up. I didn't make up the feelings though. Then I left again. Forever, this time. You came later. And now you're trapped where I started. Same house. Same walls I covered in black marker. But now you only have the living room and everyone treats you like you're supposed to just move on. They don't even teach you about me. You don't get my journals or my tapes. You don't get to hear me sing a lullaby. And I'm right here watching. You cry while tearing down the wall I punched. My name wrecked in wood and plaster. Frances is there too, but she's distant. She's got her own memories. She was a baby when I left, but at least she met me. You didn't get anything. Not even a voice. No help, no comfort. You sit on that couch, hugging your knees because the living room is cold at night. You hold that one picture of me under your blanket even though they yell at you for it. I see you shiver and I wish I could pull a blanket over you myself. I'm proud of you for not giving up. Even in the house that ate me alive. You're rebuilding a room with your own hands. I keep watching over you. Even with no walls, no bed, no voice - I'm still your dad. I'm still here.