As creative as I am, my earliest memories are a blur. My earliest memory is being carried by my father. That one is the most vivid.
I was about 5 and my father was taking my baby sister and I to our maternal grandmother’s house here in St. Louis. He had to go to work and my grandmother was going to watch us. I remember he was carrying my baby sister in his arms. I had on a puffy purple Oshkosh coat and wanted to be carried up the stairs to her front door.
I remember him picking me up, sister secure on his right side, and scooping me up as if I weighed nothing. As a parent now, I know how hard that was for him. And how heavy kids are.
I remember how deliberate his steps were. How measured. How he kept us safe. How, in retrospect, that act of acknowledgement and love sustained me. I remember the color of my grandmother’s brick house. I remember how tight I held him.
From his shoulders was the safest place in the world. Thirty years later, I found no other safety. I can see now, it was when I raised my tiny arms, and he picked me up, I was indeed a Daddy’s Girl!
And I’ll never have another.
[image from YouTube]