I saw my brother’s daughter when she was born, then moved to another place and saw only her videos and pictures, and heard her voice singing rhymes taught in school for the next EIGHT years. Occasionally I’d tell her stories of our dogs and our childhood. Plans were made to meet but something more important would always come up.
Nothing prepared me for the real meeting when it did happen. This March, I was sitting in a white covered ‘rajai’ at my mom’s place and my- daughter- at- eight entered the room, swinging a pink Barbie bag full of travelling pass times. Same pretty curls, saucer eyes and a huge smile. Did God run short of faces!?
“Do you know who I am?” I ask.
“I knowwww!” Twisting and tangling her skinny arms. She hopped on the bed, shoes and all, and snuggled onto my lap, curling into a tiniest baby-monkey. I hugged her tight, thinking I should have been able to see her at three, four, six, seven - this little lookalike of my daughter.
“I know you are not crying. These are happy tears.”
“Yes, these are happy tears, do you know I love you very much?”
“I know. Soooo much.” Arms spreading wide, wide, wider, “Daddy told me.”
We have good Dads in this family. Only a good dad could raise this eight year old angel snuggled comfortably in the lap of a Bua she had never seen.
Another wonderful Dad never saw this moment he tried so hard to plan. He would have been 75 today. And his daughter met this granddaughter only on the day he died.
