Dear Dad Read Online Free

the cloud line, where there were more ghosts and angels, whatever was remembered and revered by Humans was disposed in this junkyard of pink and blue spirits, like a simple pink and blue signifying gender on pillowcases and infantile clothing. There was also an imprint on her DNA that held a formative smile. Unlike other children crying into their pillow and leaving a sad face, Booba had a smile imprint in her DNA which gave her a strength seen only in men during those times. She rose in the morning like an emperor and fell asleep like a diplomat. There were little traces of diamond dust around where she played. She finally moved to America and unleashed her powers. The Karma at that time in America was dark with mafia ties and pimps and hookers strolling around NYC, baiting bystanders with perversion and fear. She walked through with an impenetrable light. She toed her aging mother behind and spoke maniacally about the Beatniks and the Art movement. They settled in Los Angeles where the sun turned Booba's hair platinum. Booba became the poorest star on Earth and attracted the Buzzhounds, who began following her like Andy Warhol groupies from the Factory. She tied connections and sealed deals without stepping foot in the hierarchical white-collar incest of corporate land.  She began to get a warm glow of motherhood yearning and wanted to begin a family. Alas, my mother was born and her sister, and the spirit continues.   .   .
     

     

    BOOBA
     
    Booba was my Grandmother on my mom's side. She was a Russian stoic and a iron-fisted matriarch. Her name derived from a cousin of mine, a little cute girl with bouncing blonde funneling braids, who spoke her name "Booba" rather than the Russian term for Grandmother "Babushka".
     
    Booba was worn from time, but it was a leathery brown disposition that awarded her greatness and sublimation. Her life was riddled with mysteries and trials of hardship unimaginable to her little Grandchildren that ran around her in the house, playing their own little courting game of tag. Joe, my step Grandpa, was a loud, bald and funny man who had the same coarseness that He used to run his hardcore tavern next door to the house. He would laugh during dinner, using both hands on the table to support his great bellowing lungs, meanwhile whispering over to Booba to get the pliers. He was going to pull my baby teeth out! I squirmed and tried getting my left foot down off the three foot chair to run. Booba, with her hands folded, would shake her head with gracious bemusement.
     
    As I played outside their house, in the hot desert sun of Southern California, I would find bullet casings between Booba's house and the tavern, an echo of violence that traveled through the arteries of America, via the Hell's Angels. Joe ran the tavern into the wee hours of the morning, until the last bad ass was stumbling or falling off the stool. Joe would just look at them, shining his glasses with a ultra-white bar towel, as the bad ass would fall, what seemed like slow-motion, to the ground with a clapping thud.
     
    Joe eventually passed away, leaving a house empty and cold, and a Tavern too wild for Booba to run. Booba moved to Reno, where one of her daughters moved with her family. My mom and I went down there to visit when I was Twelve. The casinos attracted me, even though I had the slightest idea about gambling. We eventually went to the all-you-can-eat buffets and I watched the giant Goldfish swim in the glass cylinders next to the booths. My mom and Booba were getting ready to play the slots. My mother handed me a roll of dimes, the same way she handed me my allowance, looking over her shoulder to see if my dad was watching. She would drop the dimes into the slots for me, since I wasn't old enough to play myself. Booba looked over to see my mother handing me the roll and saw my expression was lit up just like the neon signs that promised millions of dollars. She snapped: "Don't BE GREEDY."
     
    I came back down by