Afternoon With Pop
He knows he shouldn't be surprised how quickly she picks up on things, but Pop never ceases to amaze him. She's so much like her mother in certain respects that he could nearly call her Grace's Mini-Me, but in other ways, she is so much like him it caught him off guard. Like the day he could hear the guitar wafting from outside. He stands in the doorway and watches her strum the guitar that almost looked too big for her tiny frame. He listens to her sing quietly to herself, the music changing as she writes, fitting together a little bit better each time she fixes it.
She's writing a love song. That much he can work out without help. But he can't pin down who it's about.
Not that he dares ask. That's something sacred between writer and potentially the person she's writing for, if (s)he is aware of it.
She looks up at him and smiles. "I was waiting for you," she says softly with a smile. "I've got lemonade for us."
He walks out and sits down in the chair next to hers, smiling at his daughter, all pride at what she's become. She's blooming into a beautiful young woman, happy, healthy, smart, affectionate and caring. She's everything he wanted her to be the second they settled her in his arms after she was born.
"You're good, Pop," he says and takes a drink. "Always prepared for your old dad's never-quenched thirst for lemonade."
She laughs softly and sets the guitar down next to her, curling up on the lounger a little more. "I'm glad I could help. So, what're the plans for today?"
"We're going to see what you can do in the studio," he answers with a chuckle. "It's about time you learned at the very least how to control the soundboard."
She bounces a little, happily, before launching herself at him. "Really? You'll teach me?"
"Of course I will, Pop. Every musician needs to know both sides of the process."
She kisses his cheek. "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you too, Pop."
She's writing a love song. That much he can work out without help. But he can't pin down who it's about.
Not that he dares ask. That's something sacred between writer and potentially the person she's writing for, if (s)he is aware of it.
She looks up at him and smiles. "I was waiting for you," she says softly with a smile. "I've got lemonade for us."
He walks out and sits down in the chair next to hers, smiling at his daughter, all pride at what she's become. She's blooming into a beautiful young woman, happy, healthy, smart, affectionate and caring. She's everything he wanted her to be the second they settled her in his arms after she was born.
"You're good, Pop," he says and takes a drink. "Always prepared for your old dad's never-quenched thirst for lemonade."
She laughs softly and sets the guitar down next to her, curling up on the lounger a little more. "I'm glad I could help. So, what're the plans for today?"
"We're going to see what you can do in the studio," he answers with a chuckle. "It's about time you learned at the very least how to control the soundboard."
She bounces a little, happily, before launching herself at him. "Really? You'll teach me?"
"Of course I will, Pop. Every musician needs to know both sides of the process."
She kisses his cheek. "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you too, Pop."