I don't know why I've kept this picture in an envelope for the past ten years as I've tried, in one way or another, to write a book about my relationship with my father and the effects it has had on my relationships with my sons. But I kept it around, regardless of how thin or thick the notebook for this project became or the title on its spine. It became a talisman, reminding me of what I don't know about my father and myself. 

Hell, I don't even know for sure if it's me in the picture. It could be my brother Mike. We had the same cheeks, after all. 

I've probably been drawn to this shot because of the way it suggests suspension. Still supported by my father's arms but clearly meant to grip the tree in front of me and cling to that. His arms would tire eventually. I would either need to grip the tree and climb down or ask him to pull me back to him. 

An apt metaphor, then, for how I feel about my father's emotional legacy––about the curse and the bad blood. For the hanging feeling I get as I pretend that I can leave the labyrinth, while in truth I carry the labyrinth within me. But now, as I hang in the tree of my ancestry, I at least feel that writing this book has given me some choice about which pocket to carry it in.