A year ago today, we had a funeral for my stepfather. Other than the funeral, I cannot honestly tell you what we did that day. So instead, I will tell you about a picture that captures, in my mind, so very much of our childhood with David.
The picture is of two household items made into people by the industrious innovation of three young girls. It was taken in the basement of my mom's old house in Kearney, so I can only guess that Erika, Kirsti, and I were all between the ages of say 9 and 12. I don't have the picture. I think it's in a box somewhere in my basement or my mother's basement. I know David took it. He had been helping us during the most trying of our times as we manufactured these two "people".
The little one was a vacuum, decorated in a variety of dress-up box items. Honestly, I don't remember the little guy much, so dwarfed was he by his ironing board wife. His ironing board wife? She was beautiful, her beach ball face covered by a tangled gray wig, broad shoulders belying a stocky body with an old western shirt that covered pert tennis-ball breasts.
The thing is, this was a snapshot. It was mere moment from a history of what I consider to be amazing parenting, from the physical challenge of chasing after David in the summer heat of Washington, DC or chasing lightning bugs in the wilted evenings in Clifton, TX to the mental challenges of Mad Libs, create-something-out-of-nothing games, and, as we got older, God, philosophy, and politics.
And as often as I smirk and say "I didn't sign up for this" when my children embarrass or frustrate me, I realize that David did. He signed up for this wild rogue tween who tested and pushed and screamed and pushed and who now, as an adult, couldn't be any more grateful.
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