Fiction Sep 01 1981 A Father, A Daughter When I was six I loved my father passionately; hearts flew, as they say, whenever I saw him, and we were as chaste as teenage lovers in a forties movie. At six p.m. he veered to the curb in his sky-blue Ford roadster: he wore a green bow-tie; he stepped off the running board with a heart shaped box of chocolate kisses and a bunch of violets in his hand; he gave them to me.