I am a father’s daughter
This is my Papa. That’s what I call him. That’s what my little boys call him, too. Papa . . . as in “Watch me, Papa! Watch me.”
We sat yesterday on the couch together, the couch in the living room where no one ever sits. We sat next to each other while the little boys played Star Wars downstairs and the girls were in their rooms. We talked about life, about love, about letting go of resentment and pain and fear. We have always had these “heart level conversations,” as we referred to them, from the time I was very young. And yes, I know how truly rare and wonderful that is.
To be able to talk with your father about the deepest feelings of your heart. To be able to tell him you’re afraid your life doesn’t have meaning, you’re afraid you’re not a good mother, you’re afraid you might be the gullible twit people say you are . . . and to have him hold your hand and say, “Well, let’s talk about that.” It’s a magical thing.
When my father is here, or when I’m in his house on the hill in Pennsylvania, or when we’re somewhere else altogether, we are always at home. Home is where our two hearts meet. Home is where his shining blue eyes meet my playful blue ones, and we tear up with love for each other.
We talked about Aiden the other day, my youngest son. I told Papa, “He is so loving in his nature, so easy to love.” Papa replied, “Just like you.”
I am a father’s daughter, a Papa’s girl, the product of a man who always made me feel like loving me was a privilege. I love you, Papa. From your youngest and most needy daughter,