There's a scary seldom-mentioned feeling in our family that my father will have another heart attack, one that he won't survive.
My father, dressed in his plaid button-down shirt on a Friday night, held my daughter. Past her bedtime, and past his. In the soft light of the living room lamp, they smiled at each other. The same calloused hands that held me as I grew up were wrapped around her cotton pink blanket. Her small body swam in the comfort of his arms.
"I've got to be around to see her grow up," he said.
Lovely post. I feel like that about my grandchildren. I like the new design for your blog. It suits a writing blog by a redhead.
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