January 7, 2000

Long after I am gone, when she is an old woman with grandchildren, I want her to say to them, My father loved my freckles<.I>. To say: Two of them, one on my left side, tickling the bottom of my ribcage there (just like my own mother's, exactly in the same place) and one on my right thigh. To say, I really only have those two freckles. They're both big and dark, deep-looking, like an imprint, not just a half-hearted daub. But they're the only two I have.

I want her to say, When I was a little girl he would give me baths every night before I went to bed. And once in a while, while drying me off, he would say, "Where's your freckle? Where's your freckle?" And I would find it, and I would find the other one too, and then he would kiss the one on my side and say, "I love your freckles. I'll always love your freckles because they're yours." And then I would point at one of his freckles. He had millions of them, light and smeared-looking, like copper pennies melted down into the skin. I would usually point at a freckle on his forearm as he held me, or his neck, or face. If for some reason he didn't say where are your freckles I would point at my own freckle and say, "There my beckle, Daddy! You have beckle, too!"

I want her to think of me loving her freckles. I want her to grow old with that.

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