A Thursday afternoon was the day that I entered room 432 with a leather vest on my back and a children’s book in my hand. It was on that day that I had my first encounter with Amara.
My tattoos reach up my arms, and my beard reaches my chest; I am the kind of man that most children instinctively shy away from. I am 58 years old and a biker.
However, she did not. Seven years old, bald as a result of chemotherapy, and as little as a bird while being covered in hospital blankets, she looked at me with her enormous brown eyes and begged me to read to her in a manner that was almost timid.
Already, the nurse had informed me that her mother had dropped her off at the hospital for treatment and never returned, that Child Protective Services was unable to locate family members, and that the cancer was progressing more quickly than anybody was willing to accept.
Before, I had read to children who were terminally ill, but the solitude in her room struck a chord that was more profound.
I felt a crack open that I had believed time had sealed shut when she asked me if I missed being a parent. This was after I had lost my own daughter twenty years ago.Games for the whole family
A couple of chapters later, she placed her small hand on mine and asked the question that broke my heart: “Mr. Mike… would you be my daddy?” Right up till the moment I pass away?
Leave a Comment