I insist that my father get credit for the glass face of the sun. It was his idea. Two young men stand near a work of art they claim is theirs, but I know it belongs to my father. Sure he didn't make it, but they followed his plans. The glass face of the sun glares up at the real sun. It measures the time. The lips are pink. I tell the men a brass plate inscribed with my father's name and a line about his inspiration will do just fine. They can't unveil it until he gets his due.It was my father's idea – the sun.