Funny, today is Mimi’s birthday.  Measles would have been one hundred and fourteen years old, and funny that I would find the article about Daddy’s death today.  There were a few things I had wrong, or didn’t know.  For some reason I always thought when he played baseball Dad was a fielder.  But no, he was a catcher, and you know, that was the position I played best and loved the most and was danged good at it; got that from Daddy.  I didn’t know he had been temporary commander of homicide division at some point.  I knew he was considered a fine detective, but I didn’t realize the degree to which he had been recognized “for outstanding work on murder investigations.”  He simply never told us, or at least, not me, and Mom never mentioned it.  I know it’s his obituary, and funeral notice, but finding it makes me feel oddly comforted, and happy, as though he’s been brought back to life and all my memories of him and what it felt to be a child are as vivid as yesterday.  I used to liken the “feel” of my father to warm, golden  New Orleans sunlight, slanting and glowing in the first flush of a spring morning like honey, laid back, easy, happy, bright but not blinding.  I feel that now.  It makes me want to cry a bit, but from happiness.

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