Insurance. Kansas City. 1978.

In the photo, my father and I sit at the dining room table—a repurposed card table that belonged to crazy Aunt Pearl in her apartment on the Country Club Plaza.

I’m seventeen. My father is sixty-one. We are a long people, and in Aunt Pearl’s low, spindly, card-table chairs, my father’s torso is colossal. It might be the Belvedere Torso, if the Belvedere Torso wore a herringbone sports jacket and had a head.


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