Tuesday, May 24, 2011

his handwriting

My dad took me to the airport when I was going to see my mom in South Africa. He drove all the way from his vacation home in Las Vegas to Los Angeles just to drive me to the airport. He didn't do anything else while here. Just turned around and went back.

On this day, my dad gave me a book. The Diary of Frida Kahlo. Inside were half sheets of paper that he had printed some of his favorite Diego pieces. He also gave me a beautiful pair of Frida inspired earrings, that I am embarrassed to say I've since lost.

Last night Hadley got her hands on this book. She has a knack for finding rogue crayons and coloring on everything. And sometimes removing favorite pages of books. So I panicked when I saw pages coming out of this book, having forgot that they were there. And there it was. His handwriting. 


And his memory all wooshed back. Not that he is far from my mind, ever. But suddenly his voice didn't seem so distant. I can almost hear him saying what he was writing. Smell him. Feel his hand on mine.

Then I had to explain to Hadley that this is a book that my daddy gave to me. That it's special in many ways. That I don't get to see him anymore and his memory lives in photos, things he loved and left, things with his handwriting on them and in my heart. 

She doesn't understand. She's far to little and innocent to understand the concept of death. And I am fine with that. But I try to keep his memory alive for her. And Hayden. They will know him on some level and I'll always be sad that they won't get to know him alive.

But this is life. And for now, my heart hurts.
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