Please welcome this guest post,
By Kathleen Comeans
That girl…that was how he began to refer to me, and I was okay with that.
I was that girl he would ask every day what was my schedule.
I was that girl he would call in the middle of the night to make sure I had made it home safely.
I was that girl who shared breakfast with him, every morning, for three and a half years.
I was that girl who listened to his stories, working on the railroad, football games in high school, Joe Lamb’s gas station, and how first base on the ball field used to be where his front porch is now.
I was that girl who shared his adventures, horseback riding in the Black Hills, camping at Devil’s Tower, fishing in Canada, walking in the ocean, and Vermont winters.
I was that girl who received his endless encouragement.
I was that girl he believed could accomplish whatever she started.
I was that girl and he was my biggest fan, at every dance recital, cheering and whistling, from the front row.
I was glad to be that girl, because to me, he was That Man.
He was that man I cared for every day.
He was that man who hugged me goodbye and asked when I’d be back.
He was that man I took to the cemetary to visit his loved ones.
He was that man who always loved me and his family.
He was that man who still missed his wife of fifty three years.
He was that man for whom I would do anything.
He was that man, my dad.
My name may have escaped him, but not the sound of my voice and the look of my face.
He always knew who I was…I was That Girl.