Memory is a funny thing.
What we retain.
What we reach for, but can no longer find.
I remember curling up on my dad’s lap, cradled in his right arm when I was almost too big to fit, while he recited my favourite nursery rhyme:
Pussy cat, pussy cat,
Where have you been?
I’ve been to London to visit the Queen…
Sometimes he would sing it. Sometimes the heel of his foot would tap out the cadence of his words as I begged for him to repeat it again and again.