Eight. Eight memories of my father is all I clearly remember. Here’s one.

I remember being alone with him in a plain apartment in NYC for what felt like a very long time. I remember laying in a small bed with him. I remember getting up with him to go to the bathroom. I remember drinking seltzer water with him. I remember his pail skin and the black hair on his arms.

When recounting the memory to my mom I was informed that at the time we were living in Florida but dad was still in New York. I must have been four years old. We had gone to visit dad and other family members. Knowing my mom, I’m sure we had a busy agenda that involved anything but sitting around. I’m told that after we visited with dad I refused to leave with the rest of the family. They left and I stayed with my dad who was sick.

I was and am a cuddler. Not just a cuddler, but a suffocator. I can’t get close enough. My mom says I was like that since I was a baby. So it makes me happy to know I stayed with my sick dad and cuddled with him. I don’t know if he was achy or feverish at the time. I don’t know if my touch hurt his body. I hope I warmed his heart.

I’m glad he wasn’t alone. I’m glad he knew I missed him. I still do.