“I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” ~ Jack Kerouac

 My mother told me when I was five years old I often stood peering out a picture window in our living room for about an hour, watching and hoping for my father to come home from work. He never came home. He had died earlier that year, 1959, from pancreatic cancer at age 41. I knew he was gone, but I suppose something inside me refused to remember that he had died.