Keep It Going
We drove to Denver, just the two of us, because I’d promised.
She had birthday money burning a hole in her ever evolving brain.
We spent significant time in American Eagle where I stood beside the
entrance to the dressing room which is guarded by perky butted
mannequins in bikinis, or underwear (I can’t tell which).
I tried to think about hamburgers, and was almost successful.
Next stop – Sephora – where we waded through a sea of girls and
women, the air burdened with perfume and performance.
My youngest daughter is drawn to this oxygen, I see this.
Checklist checked, we motored home and I opened the
sunroof so we could listen loudly to Meghan Trainor’s “No”
plus that song about cake in the ocean, and several others.
I sang the words wrong to them all, which she corrected with grins.
She knows this game I play with her, called Keep the Conversation Going.
So far my youngest daughter gladly plays along, I see this.
The last song that spun was one of my new favorites, about
that boy who once was seven years old. Aging man tears accompanied
those lyrics, like they do every single time. She sees this.
This reminded me of my daddy, long gone from this world, and his exclusive and tenacious love for me “no matter what”. Keep it up dad, you’re not only showing her your love for her you are giving her an example of our heavenly Father’s love. Love without boundaries, that endures through heavy perfume laden oxygen, loud unfamiliar music, and all those other temporary loves we go through.
It is good that she sees this. All of this.
What a wonderful thing it is to read about a father and a daughter who actually see each other. You have given your daughter a great gift.
My now oldest daughter remembers fondly my daily morning ritual of tussling her hair on my way to the coffee maker. My youngest recalls our walking songs invented to keep her going on the way to kindergarten. My middlest remember the games played during Arsenic hour, when I distracted hungry girls while my wife readied our meal. They often recall things I don’t and their recollection of these is pure gift.