Dear Dad

Yesterday I took apart the bench and shelves that comprised our darkroom. Following the dictates of painters, real estate agents, and common sense, the space in which you and I once shared so much forever changed. What a fabulous laboratory our darkroom was - a goddamn closet in what should have been a bedroom for the sibling I never had (I'm not complaining). The stains of chemical splash marks are still there. The light-tight shade you devised isn't there; when did you take that down? Speak up!
So, there I am yesterday, pulling out the structure that held the enlarger and trays of chemicals (By the way, the enlarger and accessories went to Manual Arts High School in South Central Los Angeles. The photography teacher came out and got a bunch of stuff. He showed me the work of one student, an autobiography in captioned, black and white photos that tore my heart out.). I was struck by the craftsmanship of your construction. You actually used oak plywood for the bench; your fasteners were counter sunk; the sonofbitch was solid. What a pain in the ass to get out! I'm older now than you were when you built the thing. In an odd way I'm saying, "good job, son".
It's chaotic and I'm feeling overwhelmed. Painters come on Tuesday and spray ceilings throughout the house. That means everything clears out. We're talking closets too. I'm not ready, so most of the shit that remains is going into the garage. But I'm sore from yesterday.
There is still so much to look at and make decisions about.
Dad, one last thing, I listened a reel to reel recording of you and mom and Aunt Daisy made around 1965. In the course of your conversation about nothing in particular you laughed. It was a hearty laugh, a Bob Babin laugh I haven't heard for a very long time. You simply didn't have the strength physically or emotionally those last few years.
I love you and miss you terribly.
Paul