A father’s name.

I was seven when I ran down our driveway in the pouring rain after my father’s car, and my dad, who is alive and one of my best friends, did nothing wrong that morning; he was driving to his racquetball game before work, and the arithmetic I did standing there, that if I were bigger, if I were stronger, if I were better at even knowing what racquetball was, he probably would have taken me, became the picture of God I carried for decades without knowing I was carrying it, and mine is the small version of this story.