|Picture Credit: Chris Mitchell|
replica of the giant graffiti that looms up wide before me. Memorialized as a
national preservatory, sealed off from further modifications, it beckons me
closer to decipher my truth once and for all. My heart racing, I look down at
the tiny, sharp red cross in the picture and flip it over, the instructions
already read a million times over. I light up the charcoal and let the fumes
glaze over the spot in the graffiti. Neat, distinct alphabets come alive.
Seventeen years later, I finally know the name of my father.