Moving Away, Moving Closer

Tubby-time. I'm drawing animals in various soap/paint colors on the side of the tub, washing hair and generally chit-chatting with the Booglet. I'm washing when she turns to me and says:

"Daddy, my do it." I just love that phrase.

"Sure Sugar Bear," I hand her the washrag and she starts washing her plump belly. I watch, feeling left out. This is the way it will be, I think, with a tinge of sadness. Bit by bit, excluded from her, irrelevant, unneeded. My hands fold uselessly over the bathtub side.

"Wash Daddy's hands?" I look up and she's reaching over to wash my hands. Her little hands wrap around one of my fingers, washing them. I study her face, tilted to the side slightly, lips pursed in concentration. Washing Daddy's hands.

"Oh thank you Sweetheart." I said.

Thank you for washing my hands. Thank you for being here, which washes everything away for me: regret, anxiety, fear of a world brutish and cold. You have scrubbed me clean with your delicate little features; given me peace after so long travelling.