Baxter Road Miracle

Daddy,

I used to bring you wildflowers. And pictures I colored at school. You gave me a doll house, remember? It was fun to choose your gifts. You never wanted a new shirt or trendy electronics. No, you preferred a well-made tool, some lumber, that crazy chandelier I found for you one year.

You always liked fried chicken, and seemed to enjoy it when we brought you candy. But that was when you knew me, when you recognized your wife and children by sight. Do you know we brought you new socks and underwear a few days ago? Does it matter that we replaced the blanket you’d worn out covering your face to shut out the light?

I wrote a book about you, Daddy. Maybe my memory is faulty, but the story reminds me of the way you were. If you were yourself, you’d read it and we’d reminisce about the good times we had. I’d like to think you still have those days stored inside, even though you are no longer able to speak of them. I know you won’t read “Baxter Road Miracle” but maybe someone will. I hope it gives them an appreciation of the idealistic dreamer you used to be.

This is the only gift I can give you now, Daddy. Maybe not much, but the best I can manage. Sweet dreams. See you soon.


Carlene
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