Goops they lick their fingers,
Goops they like their knives,
They spill their broth
on the tablecloth,
And lead disgusting lives.
This little "poem" came up yesterday when a voice from the back seat announced that a little bit of ice cream had spilled on her clothes.
My daddy used to say it whenever the subject of spilling and table manners came up, a jokey little poem he probably learned from his parents.
"That is so disgusting!" Elena said. "I like it."
Then this:
"I wish I had met my great-grandfather, your daddy."
"I do, too,"I said. "He would have adored you and you'd have loved him. He was funny, like you and like your daddy."
"I already do love him. He's in my heart. He watches over me. He is always welcome in my heart."
She paused and couldn't see my eyes teary.
"When you die, Yenna, you will be in my heart too. I will always remember our trip to the beach and all the fun things we do together."
We haven't actually been to the beach, but we're planning a trip soon, so I hope it's worthy of immortal memories!
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