my Dad's in a jar.

My Mom brought him home, and I went to look.

"My Dad's in a jar," I said aloud.
The horror of that.
My Dad's in a jar!, I thought.
The fascination of that.

It was both at the same time.
It has resolved into the latter in being able to hold the totality of him in my arms, talking to the man he both once was and now is, the trade of human frailty for the strength of bronze & brass, a consolation of permanence, and presence, once again.

[Dad's view. He gets the length & breadth of the valley. He would often look at cars on the freeway and muse as to who they were and where they'd been and where they were going, the fingers of his mind reaching across the miles for their stories. I suspect he now enjoys knowing them all.]

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For my Father.

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him via LinkedIn or G+.