My Dad is Michelangelo. That's what I used to think as a child when I peeked at his sketches, again. The bottom right-hand drawer of my parents' desk was filled with opaque parchments, sketches in bold lead strokes, of body parts. There were hands, arms, thighs, abdomens, feet, and backs all laid out across the papers like gems of human anatomy. Perfect reproductions. I never knew if they were his drawings or if he traced them. I didn't want to know I wanted the enchantment to last. My little girl heart was sure my Dad was Michelangelo.