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My daughter is a wonder.
I arrived late at the fair; a thick and sticky evening, the daylight clung to us all as did the sweet scent of fried food. I was late.
My wife and daughter had already spent the better part of the day at the fair enjoying the sights and sounds and smells; my task was to find them in midst of this Great Minnesota Get Together. I found them west of the Education Building, in the Kidway. One must understand the nature of the Kidway — it is a miniature version of the Midway with all of the colour and intrigue and toothless Carnies.

Grace devoured it; she flitted from attraction to attraction with nary a care for her mother or I. She was curious about these mechanical curiosities — just as she was with the John Deere equipment displayed on Machinery Hill. She was curious about it all: the people, food, and folly. The fair was an enormous, technicolor, undulating dream — she was its avatar. Instead of a sword she carried an ear of corn. Instead of a crown she wore a pink paper hat in the shape of pig’s ears. She thoroughly enjoyed the day and I thoroughly enjoyed watching her, my champion.

I have learned to live with loss; I suppose we all do at some point in our lives. Today marks six years since my brother Chris passed away.

Loss defines.

I remarked to friends and family in the days after he was gone that everything mattered more. Each choice, each action, each in-action: each would be measured against a more perfect ideal and each would require meaning. After six years I have realized this pursuit is fruitless — I cannot find meaning and purpose where there is not any. I cannot make reason from unreasonable circumstances. I can not make possible the impossible. What his loss has taught me, though, is that I can learn to love and accept and prioritize.

I have made my peace, imperfect as it is, with his loss. I have found meaning in those empty and vagabond days after he left. I learned that I can love for an eternity without condition or possession: that I can love an idea, a memory.

I vowed to teach my children about their Uncle — their Uncle Chris. I talk to my daughter Grace about him each night and she now says his name: Unka Kiss. For now, this is enough.

I miss our shared history. I miss my sounding board. I miss my brother.

With all that I miss, I still have love.

As parents we fill many roles: jester, counselor, disciplinarian, teacher, student. I know children mirror what they see and hear, however, this one has me boggled. I have decided that I am boring. My daughter finds me utterly useless at times and resorts to slapping, biting, and walking away as her attention atrophies. I sing and dance and make a fuss — She could care less. In an effort to keep her entertained we resolved to purchase discrete pieces of high cinema: Shrek was our selection this month. In desperate moments we have purchased Barney, Sesame Street, and Disney — we thought that our friends at Pixar would serve us well. Grace talks. She speaks in short burts, hiccups of speech and single syllable words punctuated by ooohhhs and aaahhhs that make sense to her mother and I. She puts together primitive sentences. We fancy her as bright, gifted. We are proud parents. She is capable of making the “Sh” sound but lacks the “r”. One could imagine her uttering “Shek” or “Shk” or something benign. It would seem that the Grace of God has smiled fondly upon me and laughed: my daughter pronounces “Shreck” as “Cock”. Yep . . . cock. She is proud; she is proud of her new word and the confidence that it brings. She finds it necessary to exclaim it to everyone we see. She says it at terribly inconvenient times: church, family gatherings, stores, walking in public. She will look at you sweetly and say, “I want cock!”. It is precise, clear, and unmistakable. We are mortified. So which am I: jester, counselor, disciplinarian, teacher, or student? I am blessed.