|Thursday, 02 December 2010 16:39|
It came in the mail. A sturdy cardboard box wrapped around a book. PROOF, it said on the last page, with a date in small letters and numbers. I had it. What I had been working toward all these years. My book. The cover showed a small child, tentative, with a white or light dress, smocked on the top.
In back of her, a large, impressive solid figure. His pants, shoes, belt, white shirt, his right arm holding a peach ice cream cone. The other arm at his side, and no more. He was there and not there. There was the important sign, though—the ice cream cone. I was loved. I was backed up by the one who was left. He was there and not on a car ride away from me.
He came back to me and stayed as long as he could—almost to 84 years when I entered his hospital room after his fall, his massive stroke. And after that, just enough time for me to feed him pudding and for him to smack his lips, ummmm; to tell me he loved me and for me to echo that thought back to him. “I love you, too.”
Proof of our life together, he and my adoptive mother, Esther, after Alice died. Proof!. I found my way back home. Proof! I held in my hand all bound together and present now to you. Proof!
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