What I remember of my father? I remember the smell of bile on his breath, faint, almost embarrassed. I remember that he often carried me on his shoulders and would run through the apartment, grasping his short hair in my fingers. He was a very jealous man. No that’s not quite right, he was a man always unsure of himself, insecure, never quite knowing how to go about being himself. My godfather would say he was just on that side of paranoid, but he really wasn’t. He was a worrier, a verbal hand wringer that just didn’t know how to let something go.