By Mark Johnson
At two, I played a game with Dad. I hid before he came home from work. I waited for him to slip off his wingtips. I clogged around in his shoes. It was heaven on hardwood floors.
At five, I teetered on his hospital bed. I watched him board a bus in his brown brogues. I wondered why he couldn’t find peace in our suburban home.
At sixty-one, I left my sandals in Sonoran heat. I paced down halls past myocardial infarctions. I sat on sky-blue cushions. I remembered Dad waving as his bus drove away.
My name is Mark Johnson. I’ve written three memoirs: From Fertile Ground, Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator, and An Unobstructed View. I write to pay tribute to vivid people and memories.