by Kelliann Gooch

Created on: October 27, 2008   Last Updated: March 27, 2009

Last Christmas

"OK Squirt, it's time for bedtime prayers..", Daddy said,. as he coaxed his baby girl to bed.

Slightly damp, tousled, tuffs of copper hair fell over folded hands, ready to pray, as daddy led. Eyes closed tight, to ensure complete focus on this very important time to speak with God before sleep. That's what daddy always said, "..Prayer was like talking to your friend on the telephone." I never forgot that.

Who could've ever known that at the age of 9 years old, this would be our last Christmas visit together? My parents were divorced when I was 4 years old. So Christmas visits were my norm for the four years prior to this one that would be remembered. We had the best visit ever. We were shopping, playing, laughing and more gifts than I ever remembered before or after that year under the tree.

The next morning, when I came out of my room there were gifts piled so high that I remember actually going weak in the knees. My widened eyes begged to open them, opened hands as I lifted onto my tips-toesmy Daddy said, before I could, with tears in his eyes, "Go ahead Squirt, open em up!" I think he was as excited as I was that morning.

All that was visible was copper flowing bed head and flying wrapping paper. It still makes me smile when I think about it. "Oh thank you daddy, thank you, I love it daddyoh and this one too, Daddy!..." In between thank you daddy's and I love it daddy's, hugs from little arms wrapped his neck with sweet little kisses from daddy's little girl. And then the gift of all gifts towered behind the Christmas tree. Large baby blue eyes, widened, with anticipation and a high-pitched squeal tore in to that wrapped gift and paper was flying everywhere! "Daddy! It's the doll house! It's the doll house I wanted. You're the best daddy ever!", said in between little kisses and big hugs. This was not just any doll house. This was a three-story penthouse doll house with a pull-string elevator!

We only had holiday visits and sparse weekend visits because he lived in Ohio and we lived in Michigan. I always felt like every second we were together mattered to him. I was my daddy's little girl. I knew it, he showed it and we lived it. Sometimes I cry because I can no longer remember what his voice sounds like. See, my Dad was murdered in his home. The same home we played in, laughed in, celebrated in and loved in.

Thirty years later, not- so- copper hair flares out on a pillow at the end of the day. Eyes are closed shut to imagine talking to my Friend on the telephone. My mind is still full of many questions that may never be answered about the tragic loss of my Father. The murderers robbed me of memories I will never make with my Dad but I have memories that no murderer can ever take away. I know that I was loved. I know I was my daddy's girl.

I miss you dad and I have this HOPE that I will see you again. I know this because when I talk with my Friend about it, He tells me you're doing just fine.

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