The downstairs doorstairs bell rang. From the door downstairs, we mean. We thought it to be the post man, and we were preparing our ears to his question whether we would mind accepting a parcel for one of the neighbors who wasn’t at home. But before we walked to the intercom, we decided to look over the balcony first, to see if it’s actually an orange-blue suit with a hat. Turned out to be a white head. It’s shiny, silver white. Immediately I know it’s my dad; nobody has such beautiful color hear as he.

He never comes by for no reason. In the last three decennia of my adulthood he never visited me unanounced or spontanously, and also on my part the invitations have been scarce (not to confuse that with scars). Scarce to anyone basically. I sort of love how God is breaking (through) this pattern..

But now it’s my dad standing outside, downstairs. My inner alarm goes off immediatelly – and I can only think of one thing, my mom died and this is how my dad decided to tell me, not call me, but drive to my place, come upstairs, sit me down and tell me the news. I use all thirty stairs that I hear him clim his way towards my broken heart to breathe myself into this rest that frantically says okee, I got this, everybody will lose their mom at one point in time, this is my time, okee, frantic mode, I got this.

I see my dad turn one quarter to the left to start his last batch of stairs towards me en I am sedulously looking for and scanning his face. I can read it like I can read my heart. He looks at me and I see a young kind of happyness, one you can’t fake, a happyness he always has when he sees me, it looks like a flower that releases its last peddle to really blossom into openness, it’s so defenselessly endearing that I feel tears well up from behind my eyes. I will never have a big enough garden to plant all of his flowers in.

And instead of greeting him with a smile and welcoming him, I blurt out: Jeez man, you scare the bejeezas out of me. What are you doing here?

Oh baby girl, he says, if I had known, I would have called first, but I wanted to susprise you, because I read in the newspaper that they sell the yummiest of chocolate at Jamin and I suddenly remembered that every year you say you want someone to give you chocolate letter around December 5th, so I figured I’m gonna hop into town with my sweetie pie, to buy her some chocolate.

And so we did.
I chose the letter P, of eh.. of Potamotrygorgeous.
He chose the letter Q of qookie (that’s how he wanted to pronounce it).