My father is shorter than I am, about 5'10'', and muscled the same way I imagine an old sailor to be muscled. The kind of sailor who used his hands, never spoke much, and died thinking about what he'd do the next day. I imagine my father's tendons are strapped tighter to the bone than most men, and his muscles are strapped tighter to the tendons than any man, because while he is not an imposing outline, he is the strongest man I know.
I'm pretty partial to family stories. There's something about them that belly other types of narratives for me, something gentle and aching in relationships between people who often have little more than blood in common. I write about them, I read them, I watch them. Harlan Ambrose's Pitching Machine is a pretty excellent example of this sort of story done right, some sweet, short thing that portrays years of a relationship through only a few exchanges. It's a beautiful piece of writing.
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