The earliest memory I have of my childhood was being held by my dad. I must have been two or three years old, in the middle of the living room of our tiny mobile home. I can still feel the moment, straddled against my dad’s hip with his arms around me.
Warm. Strong. Safe. Loved. And waaaaay up in the air where the adults live. It was one of the last times I remember being held and not afraid of the distance to the floor.
He might have been swaying to some music. We always had good music in our home, flawlessly balanced from the silver stereo stack Dad kept against the dark paneled wall. Sometimes there was a drum set. But most of the time the drums were stacked, with gold cymbals leaning up against the wall, ready for the next gig.
Just a little girl and her dad in the best place on earth. Home.
This Weird Girl 
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