Here is the first paragraph, still a draft really, of what I've been working on this week:
I must have been four or five the first time they took me to see him. About a year into them, the visits stopped---abruptly---for reasons I wouldn't learn of until the day of my mother's funeral decades later. What survives is my father in a snug, white t-shirt like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. Once, I got to hold a gun. I remember my father producing from behind his back a shiny black object---feeling its blunt weight in my palm where he placed it. A small part of it, the hammer, somehow dug into the base of my thumb, causing a tiny patch of skin to balloon with blood. I don't recall what he said, except that he spoke to me in Spanish.
It feels good to be fiddling with words again.