Coming to a stop next to the hydrangea bush, I saw him sitting casually on a bench next to the geraniums; an arm sprawled awkwardly out to his right, his legs crossed at the ankle. There were holes in his suit pants, his white shirt stained with shades of brown. My father never wore a tie, said they strangled him. I tried not to smile as I walked across the damp grass to meet him. Meetings like this were becoming scarce. It was becoming harder and harder for me to pull myself away from school to see him. I was feeling less and less like I needed him. I’d used my last $20 to buy a pot of African violets. It’s what my grandmother always brought with her. I slid the pot under the bench and took a seat beside him.