Conversations With Book Lovers

Born When Our Father Died

We didn’t comprehend the inspiration triggered by our father’s death on April 19th, forty-seven years ago. Little girls muddling through the irretrievable loss of one wonderful parent and the temporary loss of the other while she grieved couldn’t find a single positive in the situation for many years.

But today in treasuring our parents’ memory we see clearly how vibrantly present he is in our team writing and how fundamentally both “K”ay and “M”ickey also gave birth to us as authors. A K.M. Daughters’ story consistently evokes strong emotion: loss, abandonment, betrayal, disappointment – and then, ah love. The Easter message every time. Love never dies. Love never leaves. Love heals. And love is never sad.

At our father’s funeral mass when we thought we couldn’t be more miserable than in that moment, we’re certain he sent us a message of love. A tiny altar boy clasped the chain of a thurible, an incense burner used in the church for solemn occasions. Pungent smoke rose from the burner straight into the kid’s face, no matter how he tried to angle his head away from the upward puffs. We noticed his distress simultaneously as if Daddy had directed our gazes. The comic display had us grinning. The boy’s face contorted in misery, tears streaming. He suppressed gags and screwed his eyes shut. Hands covering our mouths, we struggled not to burst out laughing. Eyebrows knit, our mother noticed our glee. She followed our gazes and in one brief moment her face transformed with her tremulous smile. Daddy would have loved that. We’re sure he engineered it.

Where do our stories come from? Aside from individual imagination, maybe beyond the clouds.

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