You know the phrase “Daddy’s Girl”? Well, that was me to a T growing up. With my daddy being in the Army though, I didn’t always get to spend as much time with him as I’d like, since he was often TDY. But the year I was six - the year I started ballet lessons - he was home many Saturdays and he was the one who took me to dance those weeks. Just me and Daddy.
I have very few memories of that particular studio, but wonderful memories etched in mind from the drive back home each week. I would roll down the window and press my face up against the rush of air till I felt sick and closed the window back up again. Then we would stop at the gas station for a snack. Always the same place, where Daddy knew all the staff - names at the very least, and usually even more about their lives, because relationships are one of his strengths. Then the post office, the best part of the trip. Daddy would take the key to the P.O. box off his key chain and give it to me. I'd clutch it tightly as I strode into the post office, a mixture of giddiness and responsibility while I unlocked the box, carefully removed the contents, and locked the box again. Just like a grown-up. Then I'd skip back out to the car and hand over both the mail and the key.