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rounds sponsored by St. Joseph’s Church. We’re not even Catholic, and my dear mother had viewed Bingo as a form of gambling. (That the Catholics condoned Bingo made it all the more suspect.) Dad had obviously mingled with predators and was ensnared. I did, of course, have another more mature “voice” regarding all this: Dad is lonely and so is Cynthia. They want another shot at happiness. My father has good genes; he’s still trim, only slightly stooped, a full head of white hair. With the exceptions of a depression he slipped into just after the loss of my mother and a tendency toward high blood pressure, he is healthy, has a sense of humor, likes to dance—all promising signs of vital years to come. Why not rejoice that he has found a partner? It was hard to find this more reasoned voice, however, when I was in my father’s house. All it takes for grown children to be reduced to adolescents is for them to step through the portals of the family home. A friend had told me of her mortification, while visiting her elderly father, at checking his list of medications and discovering a prescription for Viagra. She confessed, “I felt like a kid in sex ed class having, for the first time, to think about what my parents must have done to conceive me.” At the time I had joked about finding out if condoms were also covered by her father’s insurance. Later, I read in that AARP Bulletin that AIDS is on the rise among seniors. Really, it’s true. When I arrived in New Jersey Dad’s car was in the driveway, but I simply let myself into the house as if it were my own. The stillness was disconcerting but the neat airiness of the living room stopped me like a stun gun. My parents had typically kept the place dark and rather on the shabby side, always with the TV blaring. Now there were bright new curtains and plants that were - 36 -

The Fine Line Issue 3  
The Fine Line Issue 3  

The Fine Line presents its third compilation of art, fiction and poetry by contributors Francis Raven, Michael Young, Dorothee Lang, Raj Sha...

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