Analog

WARNING: This post contains descriptions of gun violence that some readers may find disturbing. I had a dream a few nights ago that I had to shoot someone.  There was the concrete framework of a gutted building and sunlight shining in the hollowed spaces behind a man in uniform with an automatic weapon.  I had mine raised, filled with fear, and my palms sweating.  As he took notice of me, turning, I fired. I was surprised it wasn't louder, like balloons popping, the smell of fire crackers from my cousin's 8th birthday, the heavy mist in the air was perfumed with the smell of dirty pennies, piled in my grandfather's jar.  My thoughts quickly turned to the man, now limp on the grit of the cold, gray floor.  "Was there another way?"  "Did I have to shoot?"  "What will his family think?"  "Was his family like mine?"  But still, I pointed my own weapon at him, as though he might jump to his feet. Then, as my stomach tightened, be

On February 13, when I announced, "I'm a daddy again!" many of my friends, family, and co-workers asked how "again" was possible.  "You just have a step-daughter, not your own, right?"  I find this an odd reaction, because it's not as though my step-daughter spends six months of the year with her biological father.  Were she my adopted daughter, I doubt anyone would express the same qualifications: "She's just your adopted daughter, right?  Not yours? "  I don't fault anyone for feeling this way, really.  It's more of a testament to me and my feelings of attachment than anyone else's. However, this gets to something that I've felt for nearly 5 years now: Kayla is my daughter as much as if she had been born a part of me.  There's a great picture of her receiving a necklace from her mother and me at our wedding ceremony, a necklace symbolizing my promise to care for her as though she were my own. It