I was walking down the street on my break from working a double shift at Arby’s and I caught the smell of fried potatoes and bacon from somewhere. The scent jolted me to a stop and a huge wave of memories came crashing through my mind, my father standing at the stove making me breakfast in the morning: heaps of crispy golden fried potatoes, crispy bacon, eggs over easy and waffles topped with cream and fruit. It was a weekend treat for me on weeks when I wasn't performing.
It all tasted so good lovingly prepared by my father who walked out on my mother a few years later. I never saw him again and don’t know where he is now. I stood there in the street crying not knowing why I should miss a man as crooked as Nixon.Yours and forever,
Iris Myandowski (The hand walking queer)
