I'd been born in a big hospital in downtown New York, just a few blocks from where my father worked in a building with a statue of a bull outside, but by the time I was eight he'd had his fill and we'd moved way the hell out into the country.
I hated it. The kids didn't know anything, there was nothing to do but wander, and I couldn't sleep at night for the quiet. I kept a shrine to city life on my nightstand: a subway token, arcade tickets, a copy of the Times comic section, and a candle.
I fantasized constantly that one day soon dad's work would call: there was some sort of finance emergency and they needed him to come back to put things right. But of course it never happened. That's how, eventually, I came to realize that my father wasn't really all that important.