E., newly four, was going to the bathroom and demanded that I come with her because ‘the toilet paper was too far away’, which it was. ‘Why didn’t they put it on this wall? It’s closer.’ She was right. Whoever installed the toilet paper dispenser put it in the farthest wall from the toilet.
‘Papa’s dead, right?’ she asked for the 3rd time that day. It was a recent phase to figure out who, exactly, was dead . Yes, I said. ‘How long has he been dead?’ Three years now, I said. You are four, I said, and he died before you were one. ‘A long time ago,’ she said. Yes, I said, I suppose so. ‘I didn’t like Papa very much,’ she said out of the blue. It made me sad.
Oh don’t say that, I said. You did, you actually liked Papa very much and he loved you. He would carry you around for hours and you would laugh and giggle and kick your feet just like L. did at the treehouse today. You loved Papa and Papa loved you.
‘OK,’ E. said, and hopped off the pot ready to wash her hands.