And there’s no real end to that sentence, other than I’m just really, really proud of that and want to learn more about him.
My only real memory of him was when we went to visit him in the hospital and my mom bought me special new shoes — “click-clacks,” as I called them — so that I would remember the day for something other than being in the hospital.
I remember sitting next to his bed and coloring, looking up at him and then out the window, not really knowing what sick was. I remember walking down the hallway, click clack click clack, and wondering why everything smelled and felt so clean. Nothing had ever been so clean, or smelled so strongly of lemon.
My mother would later tell me how special he always thought I was. How smart, how quick, how much like him. We were both redheads, and we both talked back. “This girl comes from my loins,” he would say. This always sounded gross to me, but is probably true.
He fought Nazis, and had 10 children, and made millions, and all I can really see of him in my mind is a friendly old face on a white bed, watching me color by the window.
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