I stayed with Daddy as long as I could, from noon to almost six. The redheaded nurse I'd met before, Meinka, who had spoke fondly of Daddy, had politely told me that I had to leave, with a promise that Daddy would be out of the hospital within the week. The receptionist who had glowered at me as I entered the hospital earlier gave me a dirty look as I left, but I didn't dwell on it for too long.

            As soon as I got home, I ransacked every closet in the penthouse for about two hours until I finally unearthed it in the very top shelf of the hall closet

            "YES!" I exclaimed, proud of myself.

            It was exactly what Daddy had described it to be: bound in brownish tan leather, black letters embossed that simply read, JOURNAL. The sketch was in black ink, and it was of a bird. It looked like a blue jay.

            Setting it on the coffee table, I began to put everything I'd taken out back into its place before I made myself some tea and read what Daddy had written more than over twenty years ago. I flipped through the pages of my father's usual messy script, holding back sneezes as a cloud of dust attacked me. I then closed the book and my eyes and opened up to a random page and read the long poem out loud to myself, enjoying the light-hearted rhymes that fit together like a puzzle,

"The statue glittered in the foyer,

a priceless article her hands so longed to caress.

'I could fence this for at least a thou,'

she thought to herself, no sign of distress.

From the Space Needle she traveled

to Foggle Towers that night

Knowing the entire time

She wouldn't go down without a fight.

Hastily smashing a window

Of the penthouse into which she broke,

Startled two occupants

And their eyes popped open and awoke.

A third was in his office,

Expecting something bad.

So he ordered his guard to see who it was,

But not leaving without his gun in hand.

She froze in fear with a look of shock

Plastered on her pretty face.

As she met the one with the gun,

Immediately she thought, 'I need to get out of this place!'

The third dweller came up behind her

And threatened her with a shotgun of his own

He pointed it at her and

Ordered her to put the statue down.

With great caution and much concern,

On the table she set the piece.

Then held her breath and hoped to God

He hadn't called the police.

While the third's back was turned,

She swiftly got away.

Knowing that was a big mistake

She wouldn't be returning to that house

Soon any day.

The third was still in his home,

Scratching his head in confusion

Of to what this thief was up to

And her unexpected intrusion.

He went on to seek her out

To find out who she might be.

From her boss as he got her name and address,

He thought, 'Or else it will continue to haunt me.'

The following night, after work and in her own apartment,

She retired to her room.

The tenement she shared with another girl

Was as silent as a tomb.

Before she began to settle down for the night,

She re-roused abruptly.

On her table by her bed was the statue

She had tried to steal the night previously.

He stood outside the decrepit building

In which he knew she resides

Wondered if she liked the present

He had purposely left inside.

As he drove home in his beat up car,

Which was far away from her place,

He knew it wasn't the last time

He would see her face.

-Logan Cale, 1/2/10."

            Recalling what Aunt Cindy and Daddy had told me once, my parents had met with Mom trying to steal a statue of an ancient Egyptian goddess. Perceptibly Daddy was writing about that night. Laughing to myself I quickly flipped to another page and read aloud again. The apartment was too quiet and I needed to hear a voice echo throughout the place, even if it was my own,

"Perfect strangers,

Yet we've met.

Secrets that haunt her past

Come to invade mine—

It keeps us separated.

The foreboding idiocy

That prevented me from reaching out

To touch her hair, stroke her face,

To even plant a kiss like the seed of the reddest, sweetest blossom

Upon her cherry lips.

Why did I not grasp the chance?

I had it and the cruel hand of

Genetics slaps us both in the face.

We will forever remain

Perfect strangers.

-Logan Cale, 9/16/10."

            According to the date on which he wrote it, my mother still had that virus I had learned about way back when. He most likely wrote this about how the virus was keeping them apart. Curious about what else he could have written, I flipped to the second-to-last poem in the book. First I read it to myself, but it was so sad, I had to re-read it aloud, as if confirming it was really there,

"The angel that once flew

Like a nightingale's melodious song on a summer night;

Swiftly stolen was her life.

Gone.

Like the birds who soar for a better tomorrow

When the cold is too much—

I feel that cold now, settling within my very soul.

Dark.

Like the void I feel when I see she's not there…

I see her wilted like a delicate rose surviving the ordeal of a harsh winter.

Love.

Something she knew briefly and had forever.

Max.

-Logan Cale, 12/21/29."

            With a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, I noticed the date was exactly five days after my birthday. I was barely a week old at the time and obviously Daddy felt incredible grief.

            Aunt Cindy mentioned he was a bit withdrawn after Mom died, I thought. Maybe, like I had seen Doctor Barnaby, he wrote poems therapeutically.

            The very last poem in the book before a series of blank pages was the only one with a title. It was called "Earth Angel" and pressed between the pages was a very old picture. It was hard to make out what it was but I put it directly under a side table lamp and it was a picture of my mother in the hospital, her hair wet and face flushed and smiling weakly, cradling a newly-born me. Never have I seen this photograph and it intrigued me. This must have really been the last picture ever taken of her, not the one Daddy looked at longingly, which he kept wrapped in the ancient white knitted sweater she had slaved over for years. I put the picture back and read the poem,

"All is not lost,

Love is not gone.

The black hole that once invaded

My mind, body and soul is now fictional.

I have a little angel in my arms;

One who smiles when I smile, laughs when I laugh

And is comforted by the simple beat of my own heart.

Miracles do happen.

This one is named Maxine.

-Logan Cale, 4/30/30."

            It was short and sweet and it made me cry. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, foolishly smearing my sepia mascara all over my red long sleeved T-shirt.

            "Oh, shit," I blubbered when I noticed the stain I'd haphazardly made. Oh well, I thought, examining the brown blemish. At least now I can cut off the sleeves and have a new tank top to wear in California.

            I stole a glance out the big windows and noticed the sky was invaded with discolored clouds, casting a jaundiced look over Seattle. My eyes then noticed the almost-finished crayon picture still taped to the floor that Gina and I had began early that afternoon. The crayons were still strewn about and Gina's poker-playing angels were only half completed. Since I had not seen all she'd drawn, I reviewed it. Besides poker and guitars, that clever friend of mine also had angels playing trumpets riding on white horses with slivery manes and golden-tipped wings, plus some hilariously raunchy-looking angels enjoying a hot tub, wearing (instead of the cliché flowing robes) bikinis and Speedos, and four angels were playing what looked like pool to enjoying what appeared to be martinis.

            I had to chuckle at the way Gina pictured Heaven. Of course, her drawings were almost perfect, considering the fact we had done them with twelve-year-old stubborn crayons. Thinking it would be a nice surprise, I put on some music, crouched on the floor and did my best to complete our rendition of Paradise.

            Humming to the music, I contemplated the poems I had flipped through. My father was seriously multi-talented: an amazing cook, a brilliant poet, a computer genius and the greatest dad in the entire world.