Dear Dad,

I finally had a nice dream about you.

On Monday I dreamt you were underneath the garage stairs at home and you came out to tell us there were "at least 25 kittens under here". Then you started throwing them out one by one so I could pet them.

I chalk the dream up to the fact that I told Nick about how, when we were little, all the older kids used to keep the location of the barn cat's kittens secret from me and Carolyn.

And sometimes you would walk in the door in the morning after milking and proclaim, "Well, I found Grandma Cat's kittens today. She moved them over to the calving shed."

All the older kids would be upset because you let us in on the secret.

We would promptly run down to the barn to maul the kittens by pressing their softness up against our cheeks and prying their little eyes open because we didn't understand why they were born with them shut.

I think that's where my obsession with soft began.

Maybe you can tell Carolyn that there are four wild little kitties that hide under the stairs here at work. Everday I try to make friends with them. They're not having it. Maybe they sense that my inner mauler is still present.

I cried over you today at lunch.

Good gosh did I cry.

I was eating Mexican food.

But that's not why I cried.

At the table right next to me was a grandpa snuggling his little 3-4 month old granddaughter while his frazzled looking daughter perused the menu.

I watched him rock her and shush her and pat her on the back and tell her how beautiful she is.

It was so tender.

And I started - like the waterworks - to cry.

Because I'll never get to see you snuggle my baby girl. We'll never meet for lunch. You won't, in this life, say to me in regards my babies, "Erin, you did good."

So, I was thinking that maybe you and Carolyn can cuddle my babies an extra lot up there before they're sent to me.

Maybe you can leave a mark where you zerbetted their bellies. And maybe there can be an arrow that says, "Grandpa loved your baby here."

Love,

Erin