I looked at my Papa, mom, Nana, and my Opa. All crying, some begging God, some cursing God and some numb.

My Papa kissed me on the cheek, ruffled my hair, tickled my feet, and left for work, leaving me with mom and a bowl of Cheerios. Like most days, but this was not like most days.
Left to my own devices, I kept myself busy exploring and taking advantage of my newfound freedom, as any 18-month-old would. It’s time to take my exploration outside.

At work, the phone rings. Hello? ___ silence.
Hello? What! No!

I walked through the door to our home to find law enforcement officers and paramedics all blurred into a shapeless mass of urgency and despair.

I have no idea how long I was outside or how I ended up in the pool, but there I was. The paramedics’ haunting words—several minutes. Several minutes of trying to remember the drills that the swim instructor taught me, of trying the find the edge, of fighting the water-weighted clothes, of trying the catch my breath. I need to catch my breath. HELP! Help. help, hel….

At the hospital thirteen years ago was the last time I kissed you on the cheek, but not the last time I said I love you.

I love you.

Papa