Dear Compass,
(See, I told you I'd find out your name.)
Happy Valentine's Day. I would send you a large box of sweets, but I'm sure you'd never get it, so I'm sending you chocolate thoughts instead. You've been in the world for a whole month and a half, clever girl. How do you like it so far?
An obliging and shockingly underpaid nurse smuggled a picture to me. You looked pinched and red and richly cheesed off, but I'm sure in time you'll be beautiful. How could you not? You've been given a genetic headstart. Just don't rely on it to get you through life. Sometimes the most beautiful things end up with bugs, if they're not careful.
I'll bet you have no idea why you were given such an unusual name: Compass Rose. I know the story. I was there. I'll tell you sometime, but you'll have to ask. That's how I plan to assure myself of future conversation, by dangling carrots of information just in front of your wee button nose. I'm patient; I'll wait until you have some language. And an attention span.
Hugs to you then, little daughter. Do something horrible in a nappy, and I'll give you twenty quid.
yer ever-lovin'
Pa
Sullenly Seeking:
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
1 comment:
Dear "Dad,"
I came across your blog recently, and being a fatherless daughter myself, I was intrigued and touched. I can understand your daughter's reluctance to respond though: she knows so little about you. What do you do for a living? Are you a trucker, a teacher, a tailor, a tyrant? What are your hobbies: collecting coins or stamps or paintings or heads? What makes you smile: puppies, babies, music, murder? You're asking her to trust you on a spurious claim of fatherhood alone. What guarantees can you give her, not least about her safety? Are you a good guy or a bad, a white hat or a black, a dragonfly or a dragon?
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