Father.

My father used to have this strange obsession with painting the moon. He would paint it over and over again until one day when he got it just right. He never painted it again. Now, as I am older, I wonder if it wasn't really about the moon at all, but rather him wrestling with the universe itself. 

A few weeks before my parents announced their divorce, dad brought me to the beach in the middle of fall in the pouring rain. It was so cold. He sat down on a big rock, overviewing the ocean. I sat down beside him. Not a single word was said. But that day my father shed a tear.