Listen to the dolphins, they call me all the day.
Papa would sing, strumming on his guitar in the breezy sunshine. He’d have me in his lap, somewhere toward the end of his massive thigh, and bounce me as our rocking chair creaked with the tempo. I still remember the chords on my mandolin. The hearty chuckle and sweetest baritone that, one day, stopped altogether.
Days of silence became weeks of hospice. Those weeks became precious months, and a year of mourning.
I keep the dolphins in stained glass, and sing the very same song — longing for him and the sea.