and when the night gets silent, the little girl comes out to sing.

ahh my grandfather. The rebel, the drunk, the abuser, the prisoner, the poet, long deceased. He died in prison. He urinated on cops. He had mistresses all over town. He had violent outbursts and owned guns he stole from mobsters. He shot a man in the eye. He got stabbed 3 times. He was in gangs. He wrote incredible poetry. He was the life of the party. He was terribly exhausting. Dangerously opinionated. My mother compares me to him. Says I am an outcast of the family.

Just like he was. Who knows: I too might end up in prison with tattoos all over my body and a lonely heart.

I wish I knew more about the man. I wish I knew him when I was little.
I don't know much about my family. Everyone feels like strangers in non fiction books. All I have are names and photographs from the 60's and 70's.