Bridget Moore wrote from New York, U. S.:
Girl waiting for Daddy to come back

   I was nine. My days were full of dolls, rhymes and colors. I lived in a pretty village near New York, called Kinderhook, with my parents. Both of them had come from a small town in Wales. Saint Paul's Church was next door to our house where my father was the episcopal priest. All day long, I used to frolic around, singing at the top of my lungs, whenever I wished.

   My Mother had gone away to Wales to visit her parents. I had a lovely time attending to various household chores with my father. I baked biscuits. Almost daily, my father took me to the Hudson river to watch the trains coursing their paths along the river. He had a beautiful musical voice. He had no formal education in music but he could play almost any instrument. People in church loved watching him play a mouth organ.

   One afternoon I was playing with Sally when my father called from upstairs, "I'm going to see Dr. Holbert. Stay around until I come back. "An hour later Sally's father came to announce that Dr. Holbert had kept my father with him to keep him under his observation for a few days and in the meantime, I should go and stay at Sally's house till my mother comes back. I was too happy to receive this invitation!


   Mummy returned and we moved back to our house. She told me many amusing incidents related to her air travel and my grandparents. Every day, she used to visit my Daddy in the hospital. Every time, he used to send me something funny about the hospital that made me laugh. Our cat, Susie, had delivered a bunch of shaggy kittens and Mummy had warned me not to handle them too much.

   One afternoon as I was watching kitten upstairs, I heard a car door slam below on the road. I ran downstairs to hear Daddy's news. Why was he taking so long to come back? As Mummy saw me, she knelt down and held out her arms. She was looking so downcast. My heart scampered. With a heavy voice she said, "Darling, Daddy died this afternoon." She continued, "He was asking about you and Susie's kittens. And you know when he actually died, he was waving his hand on his chest as if he was flying away a butterfly which might have troubled him... "

   I didn't really understand the solemnity of the situation. The news of Daddy's death mixed with the stories of kittens and butterflies… I felt relieved at least I was not scolded for handling the kittens. And perhaps, Daddy might take some more time to recover from his death and come back home, this could have been the reason why Mummy was sad.

   The next few days were full of activity. Mummy was occupied with pulling strings and running errands. So many people came from faraway places. I still remember, on the day of the funeral, the street was crammed with cars. One of my mother's friends kept me amused in the house. Daddy should have been home to meet so many of his friends who had come to see him. After the funeral, everything was suddenly quiet.

   In the weeks which followed, my Mummy decided to migrate into a new house which was at the other end of the village. I was certainly going to miss our old house, the garden around the church and the very church where Daddy served.


   The day we were shifting to our new house, I had an instinct within me which ushered me into the beautiful garden that always eddied with fragrance behind the church. If Daddy comes back, where would he find us? People said that he was dead but he might as well come back anytime. One day, perhaps he might want to see my kittens, perhaps he might want to take me around the Hudson river or hold Mummy's hand, perhaps..... I frantically walked round and round the church, observing all those places which kindled the memories of my father is my heart. I stopped at a corner of the building and leaned against it. What came out was an overwhelming outburst of sobs. All those hurt feelings, ambiguity and uncertainties about Daddy's coming back poured themselves out. I had never cried so uncontrollably before in my life.

   A gentle hand touched my shoulder. It was Jim, the old Sexton who let me ring the bells on Sundays. He was one of those who was grieving my Daddy's death, he was so close to him. He held me close. I told him how could I leave; Daddy might come back anytime. He said, "Don't worry. My house is nearby. I will let him know where you are when he comes back. By the way, don't you know he won't come back?" I said spontaneously, "Yes, but just in case...." And I prayed to the Lord: God, I promise I will behave myself. Please send my Daddy back.

   Daddy may be dead, but his memories and that innocent hope of his return are still alive.

   Blessed be that childhood which lives happily in disguised hopes!
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