Burnt Meat

When I was two years old, my parents divorced. I've spend half of my life at my mother's house and the other half at my father's. My mom knew how to cook, how to prepare a meal, how to raise a child. My dad however, that was another story. He'd never had to take care of anyone on his own. And I was so little there was nothing I could do to help. He almost set the house on fire multiple times. Once, he even put the cardboard from a pizza box in the oven with the actual pizza. But my father always did whatever he could to take care of me. One of my favorite examples of this occurred from the age of four to twelve. Dad never really learned how to cook, so, to feed me, he would grill. We used to have an ugly old screened-in porch with a rickety grill that always smelled slightly wrong. He was always so afraid that he would poison me with uncooked meat that he would burnt the food until it was black. For a long time, I didn't really care what I ate. I would gnaw on that shoe leather and not think anything of it. Now, my father actually takes the meat off of the grill before it completely loses flavor. But it tastes wrong too me. The only kind of meat I can eat is when it's completely black. People think I'm crazy and weird for it, but it's just become part of who I am. And whenever I smell grilled meat, I think about my dad and all the sacrifices he made for me. He always did whatever he could do to make me happy. And for that I am always grateful. I'll never be able to repay him for all the love he's given me. He's one of my best friends and he's taught me how to live and how to survive. And most important, he's taught me how to love.