Today my brother and I sat around his kitchen table, scattered about in piles of old papers. As I perused the documents, dating back to the early 1950s, a chalky dust covered my fingers. We sifted through hand written letters, school report cards, government request letters and divorce decrees. We read through condolence messages and funeral programs. The weight of choices rested heavy on my soul. There are always alternating perspectives to life’s most gruesome interpersonal disputes. The great battles between once husband and wife stemmed not just from a day to day mishap, but from the fragmented generational consequences of abandonment, abuse, and fear. What does a daughter do with decades worth of evidence for and against one half of your soul? There are no amends to make, there is no forgiveness to give, there is no hard feeling to dispel. That has already been done. So for today, we just sit with this story, with these heartaches and be; be content that my life is filled with opportunities to grow, be grateful for a mother’s love who provided the courage and fortitude to carry on despite life’s most difficult possible betrayal, be faithful to the Lord Jesus Christ whose great Atonement can lift and heal the hearts of both the fathers and his children. The evidences laid before us were proof of our father’s life, which was full of exploration, friendly encounters, artistic expression, intensely pigmented emotions including great highs and drastic lows. His upbringing encouraged masculine fleeing, running from responsibility in finances, parenting, and commitment. Sadness filled my breast, as I contemplated new details to familiar stories. It is so sad. My dad died in 1989 from complications and infections as a result of AIDS. He was only 43 years old.  He sought diligently after freedom from labels of his homosexuality, and lived a life that merited those labels through unquenchable sexual promiscuity. It was that searching for belonging, for satisfaction that left him for dead at the height of New York City’s artistic community’s purging. Countless fallen artists are among the ranks of the AIDS epidemic. He loved me fiercely. In somber gratitude I read personal accounts of his friends after he died. Over and over, there were references to how much he adored me and my brother. Mom always said that he just didn’t...