The Poet (Samantha Jazz) - Page 119
Lang and I never talk about my father, but we’re working through things as well. He still shows up when I don’t expect him and he’s still a pain in my ass, but one I’d miss if he were gone.
And I’m being a better daughter and granddaughter, especially today, on Thanksgiving. My grandfather is home today, and still agile in body despite his lagging mind. I manage to get him to the attic, where we now sit together, reading poetry and listening to jazz. And the moment he looks at me and says, “My Samantha,” wipes away all the bad in my life, and leaves me with the good. The kind I need after finding the evil that was Nolan Brooks. The kind of good that makes me ready to go fight evil all over again.
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