Finally, a photo of my father alone.
He sits on the hood of a car. He is waiting for something. Not happy or sad. The back says, Madrid, 1965. I don't know who wrote this or when. I don't know if it is, in fact, Madrid. By the looks of it, it could be Brooklyn. The sidewalk is crumbling. There is a can, but I can't make out its label. His hair is pitch black in the photo, and is beginning to recede. He stares, his feet on the bumper. His hands are positioned as if he had a cigarette.