It is akin to the guilt the survivor feels at being the one who somehow someway endured the accident that thieved the lives of so many others. That’s how it sometimes feels when I think of my father. Why can I give testimony of this man’s unbroken worship when so many others are wrecked again and again by the men who gave them their legal names? I have no answers. I simply limp along a witness pulled somehow someway from the flames by a flawed good man. This is not only my story. This is my song.