It took forever, but Black Angel FINALLY arrived.
(If you have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, you may want to jump back and read about the Reiki master who talks to dead people and told me to get a Mercedes. It’ll explain a lot.)
Anyway, he got here yesterday and we were all very excited. My six-year-old–who’s very sensitive to begin with and has always been sad that she never got to meet my dad because he died before she was born–immediately whisked him off to give him a tour of the house. When they got back, she noticed that I was holding my arm in a weird way.
“What’s wrong, mom?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve had this maddening muscle twitch in my arm for two days straight,” I told her. “It’s driving me crazy.”
She took a step closer to me and very tenderly laid BA’s tiny outstretched palms on my arm. You could actually see the muscle violently twitching beneath my skin.
“Your dad can fix it,” she said confidently.
And then we watched while I swear to God on stacks of autographed bibles the twitching stopped.
You can totally ask her.
Maybe it was my dad. Maybe it was the power of her faith. Maybe it was God playing a trick on us. Maybe it was a fluke, a freak coincidence. I honestly don’t even care, because the twitching stopped. And more importantly, my daughter believes that BA is my dad and that he’s here with her and that maybe, if he feels like it, he can cure muscle-twitches.
He would totally fucking love that.
The original Bad-Ass, 1962. He’s laughing right now, I know it.
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