Daddy’s Arms

It’s not very often that I succumb to being sad. My perspective on life has been that it’s simply to short to spend it sad. My dad died when he was 24.

That being said, sometimes my strength runs out. At those times, I just want someone to hold me. I can see so clearly a little girl climbing into her father’s lap burying her head in chest to be comforted. I don’t know really if that’s how it works. I never really had the chance. But I imagine it. I imagine that it’s comforting.

Daddy's Girl

It seems so cruel and unfair that March is usually the beginning of spring. It seems so contrary to all that March means to me. Cherry apple blossoms rain little kisses, the grass is the greenest of young greens, the air is fresh, crisp, clean and clear. But he died, he left one night, and never returned.

And Jessica. She was enjoying the spring. A Sunday hike. She never came home either.

My momma tells me, “Every year I have this experience were I look at myself in the mirror and think, “good god girl, look at your eyes”. Our bodies know. It is like an impregnated negative pattern. I have tried to not think about it and rejoice within myself we made it to 25 years. Our bodies are a wonderful thing. It has always given a rough start to spring but I would not of had the strength to do it with out it. Look at what were are left with. And were we came from.”

I wonder, when she says “we made it to 25 years” does she mean her and my father – the love of her life? Or does she mean us? Those left behind, and here we are 26 years, now, later?

I guess she has a good point though. What better time of year to believe, to hope, to renew than spring?

Barefoot in the grass