I settled easily into his familiar
arms. My little girl hands - eager
to find their way into his -
knew every wrinkle, knuckle and spot.
As he gently lifted my tiny
fingers to clip each tiny nail,
he told stories. Told me about
my daddy and his boyhood dog.
Told my about his shop and
told me about baseball. As I
grew, there was less telling, more
asking. I got to tell my
stories. Every visit, as long as
he was able, I'd find those
clippers and wiggle my way on
to his lap - it was our
time. My young hands in his.
My heart knit to his. Forever.