March 2013: At My Father's Grave
Here I was, sober only six months, and I was standing over my biological father’s grave. My adopted father and his younger brother were there beside me. We were in the cemetery of my childhood home of Roanoke, Va., which was a long way from where I live in Wrightwood, Calif. But that’s where following good orderly direction had led me.
My father died back in 1988, and on this cold overcast November day in 2005, I was working my AA Ninth Step with him. He’d led a less-than-exemplary life, having been arrested for lack of child-support when my mother died and was buried on her... Login to read more
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