Well, most people I know can't exactly trace their life back to their most memorable experience, or a moment where their life was completely changed. I, know mine, I remember every moment of it, every blade of grass on that farm.

When I was born, I had no father. He moved to Arkansas, leaving me and my mother alone in this world.

I grew up, knowing almost nothing about him, hearing his name maybe once or twice, but never really knowing or caring about it. I kept in contact with my grand-parents, my aunt, and my great grand-parents, but never him

Until, one day, my great grandmother, who still lived in the area, had me come over to their home. I had been there many times before, usually to help them around the house or keep them company, but this time was different.

There was a man, about six feet tall, sitting on the couch. He looked me in the eyes, and said
"Hi, my name is Micheal."

Over the next few days we hung out a lot, from playing legos, to throwing apples. I met his girlfriend, I learned a little about who he was, he had just came to the area for a little while, and would be leaving in a few days.

A few days later, Micheal, his girlfriend, and I went to the pumpkin patch.

It was a October day, a clear blue sky flew high overhead. The sun luminated the sky, radiantly, its drops of sunshine raining down on us. The oceans of gold were all that remained of the once green fields. The dirt road was dry and dusty, dust torrented upward with even a gentle push of the breeze.

The barn was an old barn, once painted a bright red, now faded with time and weather. Outside it stood a small stand where a few tired farmers sold some fruit and vegetables.

Beyond that, stood an array of tractors, lined up neatly. They were worn and battered, but they were the life force of these tired farmers.

Out in the distance, sat a small green patch of land, freckled with orange globes.

Pumpkins, of every size, each one having its own personality to it. Frightening, or jubilant, they speckled the field like boulders. Each one unique. Each one crying out to you, crying for you to take it home, and make it a masterpiece.

We trekked down to the patch, past the battered barn, past the worn farmers, beyond the tractors and plows, and into the fields.

Here, we examined each pumpkin, interrogated it. Found if it was suitable, or unwanted. We picked three pumpkins that were worthy of our knife, worthy of being sacrificed to art. Micheal carried began to carry them up the hill back to the tired farmers.

His girlfriend and I walked back to his car.

We stood there for a moment, silently. Then she spoke those words.

"It was nice of your dad to bring us here." She said.
"What?" I said, utterly perplexed. It didn't hit me yet.
"Your dad, it was nice of him to do this."
"I don't have a dad.." I stated, baffled.
"You didn't know he was your dad?"

I looked away, down the dirt road, past the fading barn, to the man named Micheal, carrying the pumpkins to the farmers. It explained why he was at my greatgrandmothers, it explained why he had been around me so much it explained...everything.

It sunk in. For the first time in my life, at nine years old, I met my father.