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My Papa.  He died while I was pregnant with B.  I’d apologize for not going to his funeral and tell him all about his amazing, 12 year old namesake.

I’d hug him.

Take in his distinct smell.

Rub my cheek against his whiskers and my fingers across the buttons of his overalls.

Take the folded up ruler out of his side-thigh pocket, unfold it, measure myself, fold it back up and put it back in his pocket.

I’d point out to him, for the 100,000th time, that all the hair on his head decided to relocate to his eyebrows after he retired.

Complain that I can’t find carrots at any store nor farmers market that taste as good as the ones he grew.

I’d tear up when he called me “honey bunch”.

Let him know that when I look into my dad’s eyes, I see his laughing one looking back at me.

I’d tell him to let Nana know how much I feel her with me when I use her dishes everyday and that I think of her one and only joke every time someone says the word, “quarter”.

I’d hug him again and tell him:

– How much I love and miss him,
– That I will see him again one day,
–  And tell him not to forget his “…hat, coat and runnin’ wutah!”

 

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