first person

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“Gone for a drive,” my father would quip.

Before I could hear him, his foot would be half out the door. When I ran and pressed my face to our front window, the taillights of whatever old and sputtering car he had would be rounding the dimly lit street of our suburban Toronto neighbourhood and fade out of view. He had three jobs, not to mention an equal number of children who fought like feral animals. Soon the car would be back in the driveway. Sometimes, he’d return with little offerings for my siblings and myself. But always, for my mother, with a long and loving embrace, he would say, “thanks for letting me go.”

I too have learned the th

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