My mother never forgave my father
for killing1 himself，
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park，
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out，
though I could hear him thumping2.
When I came down from the attic3
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes，
she ripped it into shreds4
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
