On the cover of my first book there is a photo that depicts, among other things, a letter I wrote to Meagan while she was in kindergarten. On my way to the airport for a week-long business trip, I dropped the letter off at her school, wanting to give her something to comfort her during my absence. It said, “I love you more than peanut butter, sunshine and ice cream.” That letter is kept in a cardboard box in my closet; a memory box I affectionately call The Meagan Box.
Also in the Meagan Box are samples of her best artwork I’ve collected over the years, her first pair of shoes, her first ballet slippers, and my childhood hairbrush my mother saved and then gave me to use with Meagan. This cardboard box is full of the things that trigger some of my favorite memories.
Another dad told me of a time when he was spring cleaning and found a little pink baseball cap in his closet. The cap belonged to his daughter and he remembered her wearing it as she ran around the house, her hair flopping wildly as it hung from underneath the cap. Holding that cap, he wanted to turn back the clock, even if for only a few minutes, to the days when he could pick her up and hold her in the air, refusing to put her down until she promised to give him three sweet kisses and a hug.
The memories daughters and dads have of their relationship not only remind us of what the relationship once was, but also give us hope for what it has yet to become. Now I have a step-daughter, Linley, in my life, and I, for one, hope that my best days with the girls are not behind me. Instead, I believe our past predicts what great things we will do and enjoy together over the rest of our lives.
This year when my birthday rolled around I asked the girls not to purchase anything for me, what I wanted was a letter from each of them. They argued with me and insisted gifts, especially new clothing, were a better idea, pointing to my shirt and suggesting I clearly didn’t know how to shop for myself.
I explained to my fashion consultants that clothing doesn’t last; things crumble or get lost. But a letter will last my lifetime; I can read it when I’m old, nearing death and taking account of what my life amounted to. I would keep them in the Meagan Box and the new box I’ve started for letters and cards from Linley.
I eventually convinced them of the sincerity of my request, and I did receive two wonderful letters for my birthday. As I put them in their respective memory boxes, I read Meagan’s letter once more. She ended it with, “You’ve given the world to me, and I hope I can give it back to you.”
“You just did, honey,” I whispered, folding it carefully and slipping it between the pages of her baby book.
Daddy-daughter memories; I have many, treasured, each and all.