Daddy Lovings
Lotso thunks today regarding family situation and life in general.
At the request of several impatient friends, I’m at last writing a family related cozy warm cockles kinda update.
I’ve spent the last few days with my father and it’s been wonderful. We’ve laughed and been honest with each other and kissed each other on the cheek more times than I can count. While in the car I’ll lean over and offer my cheek. He’ll blow on it. I respond back “Dad, that sucks and doesn’t count.” And then he’ll lean in and have his hat brim hit my head. I’ll respond back “Not good enough either” and then he’ll finally remove his cap and express a sigh/huff of exasperation that I know is all sarcasm, and then plant a wet one on my cheek.
This is how we Kim’s are. Playful, teasing, and expressively loving. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
We went today to my Mom’s grave at the cemetary. Cleared the mud and wet twigs from her tombstone and prayed together.
With my head bowed and my left hand over my right, I had a good conversation with my mom as I twirled the ring she had given me from her hospital bed on my right hand. It’s what I do every time I’m home. Dad looked at me and smiled.
I asked if he missed her. He said yes. But that he knows that all good things that happen in his life, any dispellings of problems or worries.. that this must be Mommy doing some work for him in heaven. I said that I often felt the same.
“Daddy, do I look like you or mommy now that I’m older?”
“Aabah darlmohso — You look like your father.”
“I’m lucky to have a handsome father then.”
“I thought that daddy was ugly!”
“No, my daddy is *sooo* handsome.”
“(giggle) stupid daughter…”
“Sure Dad. I take after you.”
There was fresh grave just above my Mom’s. My cousin’s mother-in-law. I consider it sad that the first time I’m learning of this, there is fresh wet duck shit on her grave and no headstone yet. “Mom. You got new neighbors. Did you make soup yet for them?” I think in my head. My mother, whom I take after, is a caretaker and loves to cook for guests. Whenever I hear of anyone dying, while sad, I always say a little whisper to heaven and ask my Mom to make some soup and knit some slippers for them. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. I imagine that in heaven everyone wears either galoshes or slippers up there. Because toeing amongst the clouds your feet can catch cold otherwise.
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