A Letter to My Daughter On the Eve of Our First Big Move

Dear Haven
As we move out of our tiny one bedroom on Riverside and 135th, I can't help but forget an entire lifetime of memories here. I can't help but forget about the night I wrote Drive from American Morning in one sitting after hearing The Shadowboxers open for Indigo Girls at the Beacon, singing quietly to the midi playback of my laptop from my couch at two a.m. I can't help but forget when Marlo, EJ, Hansel, Jaygee, and Jose came over to shoot testimonials for the crowdfunding project that brought that show to the public mindshare. Jose, out on the fire escape, cutting a dashing silhouette. EJ and Hansel at the kitchen table, being EJ and Hansel. I can't help but forget the first meal I cooked for your mom, when we were still just friends, and how I asked her to zest a lemon, and after twenty minutes of holding it, her telling me she didn't know what that meant. I can't help but forget the Super Smash Bros tournaments I held here, where we all played with Mii versions of Sondheim, Andrew Lippa, Lynn Ahrens and David Henry Hwang. I can't help but forget the show posters I hung on the wall, or the framed picture of me smiling next to Jen Eng's pregnant belly, or sleeping on the couch when my mom and dad would come visit.

I can't help but forget them because my entire life here started when the world shut down, and you arrived in February of 2020. Everything before that was preamble. What perfect timing you had. What better time to be shut inside a tiny cubby than with you? You who said "I love you" at one. Who said "goo goo gah gah ironically" at one and a half.

None of those before things compares to singing you the Emergency Hugs song when you couldn't sleep, or the Have Some More Nuggets song when you wouldn't eat, or pacing up and down the tiny hallway at 3 a.m. with you so mom could keep up her strength. Or setting you down on the play mat and doing your daily tummy time excercises. Holding you and spinning around to Neon Pegasus, watching you bliss out as the room spun, you at the center of it. Dancing with you to Try Everything. Hearing you ask Alexa for Better When I'm Dancing for the first time. Watching you watch Josh and Blue. Watching you watch him when he sent you a special birthday message, your eyes unblinking the whole time. Yes, Josh knows you! Asking you quietly in the kitchen at sunrise "what's this? What's that? What's this?" And hearing you whisper "microwave. Dishwasher. Paper towel. Garbage can." Your first words, your first steps, your first firsts. Outside, the world was burning but in here, the only thing melting was my heart, my ego, my need to be anything but the perfect dad and husband.

Sometimes, I'll stop and think about the PJ Masks playlist and how when it's on, you won't come to the dinner table and eat, but instead will dance or lie face up in the kitchen carpet, just singing along. And eventhough it happened earlier today, I'll get really sad. "Will she dance in the new apartment?" Someday, years after we've taken down the Doc McStuffins pictures in your room (finally, a room of your own), which today are brand new, you'll probably want to just go there to hang out by yourself. And I'll see it, and tell you it's cool. But because three years in a tiny space connected us supernaturally, you'll know the literal only thing I want is to sit on the couch with you and mom and watch a program. So you'll say "hey why don't we all hang out in the living room?" And I'll wonder if I'm being selfish if I say yes, but I'll say yes anyway. When that happens, I hope you know how grateful I am. For then, for now, for the first three years. Which were our last three years in this tiny, tiny universe of an apartment where we gave your stuffies check ups. Where we played the piano, did magnatiles and sang "we can rebuild it better together" if one of them fell down, where we had pizza party mondays and watched Friends in HBO, where not a lot happened but everything happened. So grateful. To new songs that we make up together, dances that we fake together, long form meta crossover roll plays that we do for days. To days and days and days.

All my love,

dad.