Absence

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED on Facebook, May 8, 2011

"Happy My Day," you say to your kids upon waking up on this bright May Sunday. But despite the successful laugh line, you know it's not true. This day is hers, and she's not here.

The photo of Mom you put up on Facebook took your breath away, in fact. The familiarity. That facial expression, her blend of humor, pride, and a little bit of on-guard. Because you were not easy to guide, and you and she were emotionally dissimilar--a practical soloist versus a blindly gregarious optimist. But as your adulthood finally took hold, you frequently supplied things the other lacked (usually by telephone, but that was the negotiated landscape).

Her eyes are looking right out at you in this scanned Kodak moment. It's the moment, a signature capture commemorating her triumph that, somehow, you did not flunk out of the prestigious college she had prayed, yearned, demanded you would attend. You're a dazed mess, because graduation was held on a humid, stormy day inside a gym on campus. (You had never been in that gym, ever, before the day you graduated in it. Which is a hilarious little digression. And the hangover. Oh, the hangover.)

Your path and hers diverged so completely after this day. You stayed behind in that town, that state, and she returned to her New York City existence--the loner in a sea of people, sounds, and visual arrays. She liked it that way, like a cork bobbed on a wavy, ceaseless sea. Punch in her numbers on the first telephone you ever owned (brown, with that big dumbbell handle you could cradle under your neck for efficient multi-tasking) and she would be there, always. You could see her in your mind's eye where she sat. You couldn't bear her aloneness, yet you couldn't fix it. And her maternal voice would flip on as soon as you had a crisis. Maybe you couldn't fix things for her, but she frequently did so for you.

On My Day, you get up and dress for a social outing with your family. Maine's still damply chilly despite the new springtime, so it's sweater and jeans time. Your afterthought, after the jewelry and the combed hair, is one of her scarves. There can be no greater symbol, really, of Mom's New York existence than these filmy, silky, satiny relics of her work life. Saks Fifth Avenue, B. Altman, Bloomingdale's, Bergdorf's--her colleagues bought clothing there, but Mom could only afford scarves. Almost all of her scarves, which you've inherited, are prints and colors that you would never ever select. And there's something 1970s about them that feels unreachable. But when you twist them, roll them, and knot them loosely around your neck, they become a little more you. And tucked underneath a sweater collar, they are subtle.

It's on you now, today's scarf. Some kind of comic-book burst of color, you don't even know what's pictured. But here's your My Day present: it smells exactly like her. Six years this month that she left this earth, and her scarves still bear her scent as though you just opened the drawer in her bedroom and stole something for a night out in Manhattan.

And as you write this piece, your youngest comes into your office and hands you an essay, trilling "Happy Mother's Day!" Unbelievably unique prose, and an overwhelmingly optimistic sentiment expressed in the piece, which is called--not making this up--"The Energy Given From Others." It is Your Day, it is Her Day, and it's His Day too. Revel in your fortunes, and hold your mother close.

An Alzheimer's poem

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED on Facebook, April 27, 2011

I just remembered this poem that I wrote 7 years ago about a dear family friend who had recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Re-read it just now, and I'm so glad I wrote it when I did...

Jeannette

Voice calmer than the lake at evening,

that horizon line, flat and true.

Eyes the same: clear pure blue.

You guide.

A mother of four—

five, when I needed one—

a force never forcing.

Empathy personified:

at funeral gatherings

your crockpot simmered;

for every occasion, a card in the mail—

your consummate cursive

conveying a sentiment and sharing news

in generous paragraphs.

One night at your summer home,

you and I looked out the black window

towards the invisible lake,

chairs rocking, telling stories and watching fireflies,

hundreds of them—tiny green lights here,

there, there, here, an inexhaustible supply

dancing to mate and satisfy,

unhurried. Patient.

My baby slept at my side;

brought to you as infants,

my children were always your pride.

As a baby, I lived with you and your family

while a divorce wracked my mother.

I’ve been enveloped in those arms ever since:

needed, not a by-product of conflict

but a person on my own, nurtured.

Now, as with my nana—

another angel of French descent,

barely five feet tall, haloed in lovely grey curls—

you are worried, fragmenting,

forgetting and upsetting.

I seek your gaze to find the real you

in that ever-knowing watercolor blue.

NBR 11/26/04

God bless the child

ORIGINALLY POSTED on Facebook, March 28, 2011

She is slender and suddenly taller, as in: you look at her and are jolted. Whoa! when did she get that tall?! By which you are secretly saying, when did she get that grown-up. For, now, the childish rounded cheeks are attractively shaping, the nonchalant dirty blonde hair is styled and distinctive, the womanly figure is pre-ripening. And her brown-eyed gaze, always sharp and aware, is gaining an amused wiseness.

Also, I write with pride, these days her words are sorting themselves into more careful statements. Lydia has ever struggled with verbal expression. Not that she was incapable, but she just seems to shape her thoughts and ideas differently. I could write a book about how she writes and speaks in her own way. You could say she marches to her own beat. That's precisely it. And her parents are responsible for keeping her in the parade, regardless of that difference.

I have been amazed by Lydia since the moment she emerged, bellowing heartily. In my arms, protesting and red-faced, she looked offended that her term safely in utero had been brought to abrupt closure by dreadful muscular contractions not of her choosing. How do you not admire a newborn with that kind of chutzpah? We ceded our household to her at that moment. Tell us what to do, Miss Lydia. Because, really, no one else in our home has that kind of willpower and spark. She did not steer us wrong, our unfailingly polite diva. At age 1, a favorite activity was to sit in her highchair after dinner, the white tray set before her grandly, wiped of its meal leavings...and she would begin to tap on the tray, or wave her hands, or pat her head, and we would all do the same thing once she set the pace: two sibs, two parents, precisely imitating her actions. She would watch us with indulged good humor, while we all laughed--because her stamina for this activity was boundless. So was ours.

Really, it's this: I trust her. For nearly a decade, we've weathered storms of academe: extra help offered at school that we deemed useful, versus overly solicitous concerns that Peter and I were not willing to share and act upon. Never easy, those school meetings, but Pete and I are united. Throughout, I have placed my trust in that steady gaze of Lydia's, that determination. I remember a night as I was tucking her in, and we discussed some reading issue she was having. First grade. I explained to her what the teacher was concerned about, and then I explained to her that I didn't think the teacher understood that Lydia was well capable of whatever activity was being discussed. I said to Lydia, passionately, "I know you can do this, honey. Show them that you can do this." The brown eyes filled with tears, and she hugged me tightly. My trust, again, not disappointed.

Second grade is when our elementary school opens the world of music to children who wish to participate in an orchestra. I never attended a school that offered music as part of its curriculum, and as each Reifsnyder child grips a violin and starts learning, I appreciate so much what that means. Well, it turned out, Lydia did not really like the violin. Instead, she confided one night, she wanted to learn to play guitar.

Play guitar!?! You can only imagine how rock 'n roll Mumma Nessa rejoiced. And so Weslea Sidon began coming to our home every Monday night, an experienced teacher, writer, artist, and fellow NYer in exile. She "got" Lydia immediately--and while Lyd was by no means a natural at the instrument, she eagerly greeted that hour of intensive learning. Two years later, when Lydia transitioned at school from violin to (finally free!) trumpet, Weslea and we realized that Lydia's enthusiasm for the horn was outstripping her efforts on the timeworn acoustic guitar. But what a foundation had been laid, both at school and at home.

Lydia is a jazz musician now. You hear me, Mom?! She loves, craves, embraces jazz. She clutches that trumpet like a boss, and she plays it with that determined look I adore. Mount Desert Elementary School loves jazz, too, and what an opportunity our children receive in the jazz band: two phenomenal teacher/directors whose expectations are high, but gently imparted. They know these children are capable of extraordinary musicianship, and they give them the environment and the early-morning, pre-class time to master challenging arrangements. Lydia rarely oversleeps the 6:30 a.m. alarm that's required of her for jazz band practice. Dresses herself, feeds herself, gets the lunch ready, out the door.

Every spring, those early mornings bear beautiful fruit. Say what you will about Maine's bad press re: education costs and struggles; this state welcomes and nurtures music from a young age through high school. (Shout-out to the Maine Music Educators Association!) In the 1940s my mother was a direct beneficiary of that; today, my children draw strength and skill from it. On Saturday, Peter and I traced the endless gray ribbon of I-95 up to Mom's hometown for the Middle School Instrumental Jazz Finals. Last year, I was not able to attend, and Mount Desert won first place. This year, I closed my shop for the day. Lydia's personal investment in this activity has become even stronger, so we made the trek gladly. Saturday morning, I walked through the portals of a building that used to host my Brownie Girl Scout troop, the year I'd lived in Millinocket: I got my wings in that school auditorium. Even more so, my mom got her wings in that small town, becoming a musician with purpose.

If you watched the video I posted, you know the outcome. Ned Ferm and Heather Graves did it again, guiding the MDES Jazz Band to another first-place year. The band's music selections fairly pulsed with emotion and nuance. I could not believe these children were middle schoolers. And there was my girl, wielding that brass horn, perfect posture, composed, playing her heart out. My sense of family in that room was overwhelming...how I wished Mom and Nana and Grampy could have seen and heard this. Well, truly, my belief system tells me that they did, but to have had them physically present would have been even better.

After the awards were given out, Peter and I made our way through the crowd to congratulate our girl. I was still wiping away tears inspired by the performance and the circumstances. Down the bleachers she scrambled, and she pulled me into a typically fervent Lydia hug. Her hugs are different these days...our heads tuck next to each other. Equal heights. It's even more comforting. As we separated, her brown eyes were large with emotion. Crying. In her own words, she told me that she just felt so...much...and so happy.

Exactly what I was going to say. Two hugs, this time.

Pension

ORIGINALLY POSTED on Facebook, March 3, 2011

Fred Arnold did not make it past eighth grade. He was a scrapper, honed by pick-up hockey on the ice of the Nashwaak River and the competitive pushing of six older brothers whose exploits were always larger than his. (Fred did not envy them their military service, however...he felt eternally fortunate to have been too young for the First World War and too old for the Second.) As he grew up, Fred's mother told him many times that as the seventh son, she believed he had a gift, and he should become a physician. She cited his mathematics ability, his competence, and his good heart. He glowed with her confidence, but somehow, school was not a venue where Fred could fulfill her hopes. His teachers compared him unfavorably to his brothers, and his schoolmates often had better clothing and a calmer home life, all of which Fred resented deeply. Day to day, Fred rebelled enough to have his nose broken against a blackboard at one brutal teacher's hand. Later in life, the tendons of his palms crinkled inwards where teachers had smacked them repeatedly with 12-inch rulers. These childhood flashpoints did not dim his seething determination.

When Fred's mother died--in the midst of his grade 7 school year, and with little forewarning to her youngest son--the die was cast. His already pugnacious persona became hardened and exasperated. He battled his way into grade 8, hated every minute, and jumped off the academic track for good. During that same dreadful year, his father remarried, and Fred left home to live with his beloved uncle, who lived in the same town. It is a grace note in Fred's life that no one intervened in his departure. Even today, to imagine his 12-year-old turmoil is almost unbearable.

The early 20th century was Dickensian in its cruelties. In modern times, "survival of the fittest" conjures abstract evolutionary happenings among lower animals. For our forebears, it was the name of the game. Fred survived, oh you betcha. He left Atlantic Canada for Maine, where a new railroad was enabling unprecedented travel and commerce in the northern counties. In this, he followed in his beloved brother Mel's footsteps. Most recently, Mel had served with bravery as part of the Canadian Expeditionary Force in two theaters of WW1, signing up before his 18th birthday and lying shamelessly about his age. This, too, was in the horrible aftermath of their mother's death...I can almost feel the hot tears behind Mel's eyes, not emerging, as he gritted his teeth and signed on the dotted line for service and sacrifice. What the hell did he have to lose? His mother had been taken just three months prior. His father already showed signs of moving on. What remained but death or glory?

Mel was a signaller in the war. A mustard-gassing in Russia (and multiple medals for bravery) finally convinced him to give up the fight and come home. Thence, he parlayed his war experiences into a career as a railroad telegrapher. As Fred joined him in Maine, Mel taught his eager young brother everything he knew about this most crucial means of communication. The Bangor and Aroostook Railroad hired Fred in the mid-1920s, and he was officially an adult. Courtship, marriage and a newborn followed.

Fred's professional life led him to the Great Northern Paper Company, the largest employer in his newly adopted hometown of Millinocket. He hated leaving the railroad, but a supervisor questioned his integrity over some transaction he'd processed, and Fred bristled. With his newfound sense of adult stability, he cut and ran. That the GNP hired him so readily is a testimony to his evident intellect and assertive personality; in fact, despite his lack of a high school diploma, he never worked on the factory floor, instead taking part in the end-stage aspects of the paper production process.

Fred retired in 1962 as the supervisor of the Finishing Room. He was 58 years old. From that moment until the day he died, he received a monthly pension check and guaranteed health insurance from the GNP and its successor owners. He and his wife lived frugally, but they never wanted for a thing. Both nearly made it to age 90, so their financial comfort is especially noteworthy. Think of it: no stock investments, a house worth $20,000, SSI checks, health plan, pension. That's all. Yet they were provided for by a system that our country shaped carefully as a reaction to the privations of the Great Depression, and the shortages and strifes of two major wars.

Was Fred fulfilled by his work? Well, as his close confidante in later years, I can tell you that tapping out myriad messages on a telegraph set under deadline stress was his greatest professional joy. Sitting at that station desk and waiting for the shadow of a locomotive to cross the window, bearing the fruits of his labors--that was his idea of a happy routine. But Fred also took subsequent pride in the papers he helped make, the men whose careers took place under his supervision, and the tiny town that bustled with work and camaraderie, where literally everybody knew your name.

I think about Fred constantly in these messed-up, terrifying, bewildering economic times. I can see him at his home desk, carefully and competently tending his modest household finances. During my youth, my own mother confronted numerous financial hurdles, and Fred--her father--never failed to provide when asked. Because that's what you do. The fact that he could do it was what he expected after a long, productive work life, faithful to one company. Even moreso: it was the WHY behind his full-time efforts. When local people in a similar situation recently lost their pensions and insurance a few years before retirement, I felt bereft and infuriated on their behalves. Forty years of toil, and now: nothing awaits. The world has changed, you see. Your company does not value you as an individual American anymore. And God forbid your rights as a worker should be valued, protected, and propagated.

Fred, I long to hear your words, in your voice, from your living-room armchair of observation. You would be moved to copious outbursts of fury, and bless you, I know you would be picking up the phone and blasting every representative, every official whose turncoat ways led us to this hour. "This is Fred H. Arnold," you would begin--as you did every time you called anyone to complain about anything. You weren't shy, and you persisted until your way was clear. And you felt that stating your identity at the outset was worthy, that they owed you their attention.

I'm tempted to quote Wordsworth and his "Milton! Thou shouldst be living at this hour." But that's not quite it. I am horrified at the thought of bringing my grandfather back to see this world that is the upside-down-wrong version of what he strove for and achieved.

Still, Wordsworth stated his generation's ire beautifully, so here 'tis. Grampy would have loved to hear me read it to him, the fulfillment of that college education he paid for--the betterment of his descendants always his highest goal.

LONDON, 1802.

Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In chearful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on itself did lay.

After the hurricane

ORIGINALLY POSTED on Facebook, February 26, 2011

(Honestly, I'm not all grim all the time. Not even like 10% of the time. But sad things have happened, and I am driven to write about them...to gain understanding, mastery; to give shape.) So:

It's a famous case. There's a popular movie with an Oscar-winning actor, and a Bob Dylan song beloved and believed by people all over the world. I found out today there's a new autobiography by the man who claims he was falsely accused and framed. Nelson Mandela wrote the foreword.

45 years later, and I still yearn for a woman I can't remember, my grandmother, whose life was tangled up in a dark, evil night, and there destroyed. The details of her wounding and death were horrific; given the subsequent literal hurricane of accusations, court papers, slippery evidence, conflicting testimonies, and raging controversy, Hazel's murder will never be solved. I accept that I will never know who did this to her, and I embrace the peace of that. But today, cnn.com commenters are debating all over again the innocence or guilt of the convicted man. And someone actually posted: "... after all this time, not sure it matters anymore."

What matters, then: Hazel was beautiful, truly. She had a lilting singing voice, coupled with a mischievous smile and a winning personality. She parented lovingly and fiercely, after a childhood of abandonment and poverty. She was mine, and I'll never have her. Needing my grandmother is one of the reasons I embarked on my genealogical journey in 2000. Piece by piece, and never with ease, I've reassembled and claimed her fragmented life story. Dates, names, places, from France to Québec, New England to New Jersey. Found the love, and the sadnesses too. Made my family whole.

The poem I wrote about her a few years ago came out of me like water wrung from a cloth. It needed to happen, but it wrenched. I'm posting it now because this wound keeps getting seared open, and the poem is as close as I can come to wailing: STOP. Let her rest. Let her be Hazel. Give her back to us.

--------------------------------------------------------------

"Grandmother, Lost"

Fingering the corner of a faded photo,

I find myself in Hazel:

eyes that light and scrinch with grins,

appled cheeks, shy teeth,

chin, softly doubling,

dark wavy hair.

I've been told she feared aging

yet laughed uproariously and kidded often—

sardonic bend of her Jersey voice teasing,

sway of ample hips knowing as she walked away

carrying a loaded tray of food and drinks,

serving at a country club.

Dad kicked us out when I was four months old.

A family in shards, swept up,

discarded; then I was

shielded from everyone sharing my surname,

that lingering verb: Burns.

So Hazel dwelled in handlebars, silver as a mirror,

on the gleaming blue tricycle she'd given me

(only, living in the city, I maybe got to ride it once)—

cool sheen of the handlebars' curve

under my baby-plump palm, a tricycle

hopelessly parked indoors, new black tires

ready to move.

Today I move a smooth mouse, pointing

on the Internet, finding

an image when I search on her name:

the window of the Lafayette Bar and Grill, 1966,

"Rheingold" spelled in neon script

with a bullethole in the upper corner,

glass cracked like a twinkled star.

That's Hazel's bullet, one of five

that pierced her and left her for dead,

blasting from shotguns wielded by strangers.

And I am one of ten grandchildren:

a club that never met.

Sweetheart

ORIGINALLY POSTED on Facebook, February 12, 2011

An imagining from last night.

In an alternate universe, in Queens, NY, there was a Father-Daughter Dance. Let's say, February of 1978. Valentine's Day week, festooned with red and pink paper silhouettes of cupids, hearts, and arrows. A crowded gym, a deejay playing shiny records he stored upright in milk crates. A veritable swirl of girls' skirts and heeled feet...every color imaginable, all heights, toddler to preteen. Dads in suits, some of which looked like office clothing repurposed for the event...others who were stiff in more fancywear than their blue-collar jobs would ever merit. And then the fathers, boisterous, in brightly floral polyester shirts, chains glinting inside the wide collars, and flare-leg slacks with platform shoes: the dads who "got" disco.

Not my date. My father wore a simple suit, almost '60s throwback. He didn't draw attention to himself, but he looked right for the occasion--even though I knew his tie was too narrow and his collars too subtle. My dress came from Lerner's, a clothing mecca right up the street from my house. I wandered Lerner's for hours to find it, circling through and around the spinning silver racks, a dizzying obstacle course of preteen fashion. Touching every single fabric as I passed them, musing, mulling. I decided on this one because of its pink and beige color combination--soft and different. I liked it on my Irish-pale skin. Long sleeves, because it was winter, but they were puffy floral cotton with elastic at the cuffs. The bodice was shirred and puckered all over, with a rectangular lacy neckline, and the skirt was full. No ruffle at the bottom: felt like a ladies' dress. Mom finally let me wear the wedge-heeled sandals from her closet that I always tried on, because now they fit me for real. With nylons, sheer ones. I had to wear snow boots over to the gym, though; they joined a marching battalion of fur-cuffed footwear near the doorway. My stockinged feet were still icy from the trudge over.

Dad and I were not the types of people to fully buy into the concept of a Father-Daughter Dance. A little too ironically distant, we, and both of us burned by our mutual, unpopular reality: we were eggheads. Never quite in the mainstream. Always suspecting mockery from gaggles of our peers. But we agreed to do this because some of my friends from class got their dads to go--and, as submerged as I kept it, I really did want to feel popular, somehow.

Dad was a jazz drummer, but surprisingly able to dance nonetheless. This was another trait we shared. Early on in the evening, the deejay picked up on the overwhelming craze for all things Bee Gees, and spun "Night Fever". The room, predictably, erupted. Dad never indicated any particular affection for this music as it thumped from my homework-strewn bedroom, but he definitely allowed himself to dance to it, and I found myself grinning--which I did not expect, not at all. In fact, the gym was pervaded by a temporary dismantling of preteen embarrassment about our parents and their uncoolness. I stole glances around as Dad and I, yeah, boogied, and everyone else seemed equally unaware that if the overhead lights were on, we'd be fleeing from this dance floor faster than you could say "get down tonight".

After "Night Fever," the deejay pulled out "Love Is (Thicker Than Water)," which kind of called for a closer dancing posture (and had an uncertain beat, besides). I asked Dad if he wanted punch, and he nodded, so we made for the paper-covered table, loaded up on red sugar fluid and pink cookies, and found steely folding chairs to sit in. The gym was so cavernous that we could converse and hear each other, just.

"I can't believe I'll be graduating in this room, like, 5 months from now."

"I can't believe it either, sweetheart," Dad said. He sipped the punch and grimaced, making a sound something like "grack". "Even in my boozing days I wouldn't have choked back something like this," he said wryly, setting the cup far away.

I was always relieved when he made a comment that placed alcohol in his rear-view mirror, so I smiled happily, even though I agreed the punch was putrid.

"So is this," he paused, "disco the kind of music they'll be playing all night?"

"I don't know," I replied, honestly. "I hope they play a little rock, at least."

He nodded assent and bit a heart-cookie. I looked over as the song ended and the deejay flipped on the next turntable. "Native New Yorker". Shook my head at Dad. Although I did love this song, I just didn't want to dance to it. He didn't seem interested either.

"Do you feel ready for your high-school entrance exams?" he asked. Just the thought of them made me stomach cramp.

"Sure," I lied, hoping my lack of words might kill the topic.

"How many do you have to take, again?" (No such luck.)

"Four," I squeaked. "The overall exam, and then three schools have their own."

"I know you'll do fine," he said with a hand-squeeze. I gulped, cookie crumbs chafing my throat. Then I smiled again to cover it.

People had been making requests; I could see shadowy goings-on at the deejay table. The next song kicked on and I was initially stunned--Led Zeppelin...?

"'Misty Mountain Hop'!" Dad crowed. "Let's go!"

We were still holding hands, so we made our way in tandem into the dance throng. Dad's enthusiasm over Led Zeppelin had me astonished (and he knew the name of the song! I never did, with Zeppelin), but here we were, rocking out, almost choosing the same moves. Robert Plant's vocals pealed and shrieked over the crowd, and the deejay must have had a subwoofer, because the drums and bass were shaking the floor. Dad did not shout "woooooo!" the way some of the wilder fathers were doing, nor did I jump up and down as some of the frilly girls were doing, but we were into it nonetheless.

And then there was a slow song, throwing the mood sideways. Bee Gees again (was that a sigh I heard around the gym?) "How Deep is Your Love". Which I swooned over nightly--not thinking about my father, of course, but wishing for a boyfriend like some of my classmates had. Still, Dad went into his 1950s arms-bent, dancing-with-a-lady posture, and that was fine. Before we started moving, he leaned over and whispered in my ear: "John Bonham on the drums, that last song. Killer." I had to laugh a little, because he was such a music nerd. (And he was right about Bonham, but I didn't grasp that fully until later.) We let the Bee Gees' harmonized warbles wash around us and we swayed with it, twinkling lights along the walls seeming to flow with the melody.

It seems so trivial in the writing: this alternate universe, this father-daughter spot carved into a cold February night, this gym that would revert to a sweaty game space with Sunday sunlight, all guided by the music that mattered to me (and ever evokes my eighth-grade year). Whereas, in the universe I actually lived in, I honestly did not know that I yearned for such moments--because I wouldn't have known to imagine them. I never, ever saw my father, until I was an adult myself.

Now, every year, as a mom and wife, and even moreso as a deejay, I experience a local Father-Daughter Dance and I see in countless other couples what could have been; what was right to expect; what pure happiness and fun looks like; what touches the heart and bonds the daughter to the daddy, and vice versa. Placing 1978 Nessa and Dad in that scenario...absent the many, many reasons that I did not know him at that time in my life, stripping away what was negative, while keeping our essences...this is a healing, rightful vision.

Because, I can attest, it is painfully possible to miss what you never had.