You are starting to grieve for your father in a new way. One night out of nowhere you said at the dinner table, “Appa twaveled a yot.” “Yes, he did,” I said after having you repeat it a few times so that I could understand you. It must’ve been important to you that I do because you patiently repeated it as clearly as you could at least three times until I got it and nodded your head with relief when I did.
Another day after a rousing rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” you said “I wish appa could hear me sing Twinkle Little Star.” “I know, I know you do,”I say.
You realize he will not be here for so many things. This morning on our way to the drugstore, you said, “I wish appa could go to the drugstore with us,” and then, “I’m sooooory, appa…I’m sooooorrry.” I think you got this I’m sorry part from me because sometimes when you say something like, “Appa died,” I tell you that I’m so sorry that this happened.
Tomorrow you will be 28 months old. You last saw your dad at 21 months when you were only speaking mostly one syllable words.
A minute later in the car I am stunned by your words:
“I wish appa could come back to life.”