Question, and Answer

 Herself speaks.

One of the things I miss most about my lovely Daddy, is how, every now and then, when we had that ever-so-rare moment to ourselves, he would ask, "How are you doing?" 

I would always be caught off guard by the question. It's as if he somehow knew that there was something else, something deeper and perhaps more painful, behind the deliberately bland/benignly cheerful/otherwise quiet persona that I carry around with me. 

I was never completely honest with him. Primarily because I didn't want him to worry. (Or secondarily, to share anything too private with anything else.) And what could he do, anyway, if I told him that I was Tired or burnt out or worried about all the small things? 

Perhaps I was doing him a disservice by not letting him in. He would have gladly helped me to carry my burden -- whatever it was -- for a little while, if it could have brought me some peace. This I know.

I wonder if I could be more honest now, if he were still alive. Or perhaps, it is the freedom of knowing that he is both Nowhere and Everywhere all at once, that I can at last talk to him in my head instead, and tell him the Truth. 

Perhaps that is why I miss the question: because I am finally ready to answer. 

And that is just one reason why I miss my lovely Daddy: because he is the only one who ever asked the question.