Jerame Lynn Pelkey

I woke up at 4:36 this morning to let the cat out. The cat is trapped upstairs by the herd of Pomeranians on the other side of the doggy gate downstairs. So, I have to let her out the front door and let her in from the deck door to the second floor when she climbs the support beam. Poor cat. As I plopped back in bed, I hoped she would stay out until the alarm went off at 5:30. Back to sleep.


I found myself sitting on the living room couch and admiring the newly decorated tree with my family, the kids at home for Christmas, when someone settled down on the floor next to me and hugged my knees. "Hi, Daddy," she said.

"Daddy?" I don't have a daughter, although I have almost a daughter-in-law.

She appeared to be a young girl, well a teenager, probably old enough to drive, and she smiled up at me with some expectation.

"I'm Jerame Lynn Pelkey, spelled J-E-R-A-M-E, your fault for the spelling, and I'm your daughter. Better than Coquette Cheri." She shivered at the thought. "I arrived April 1, 1989, also your fault, and am 17. I'm 5'6", and weigh 125 pounds on a good day."

I tried to figure her out. She seemed to look the right age, and correctly proportioned for 17, actually quite cute, and in good shape. "Do you like that height?" I asked.

"Sure, too tall for the short guys, and tall enough for the tall guys."

I studied her some more, which didn't seem to bother her. She actually spun around to make certain I didn't miss anything, and rehugged my knees. For someone I had never met before, she didn't have a space issue. She wore layered tees and jeans that might have given her an inch of coverage in the back, as long as she didn't gain another pound.

"OK, I'm not as cute as Briscoe, and not as smart as Erin, but close enough. I passed the WASSL and got 1500 on my SATs, have a 3.8 GPA, and play basketball, twice this week."

"You have breasts," I said, rather dumb on my part.

"Duh, Daddy, and very nice ones, too, thank you." She closed one eye and squinted at me with the other. "You aren't still sore at Michael Fletcher, are you?"

"Who?" I couldn't place him, although the memories were tumbling back, sort of. Very fuzzy. I remembered someone named Mike in her life, but not why.

"Mike, the guy you caught trying to feel me up in seventh grade. My fault, he didn't want to, not in your house anyway. I double-dared him."

"Why?"

"Cause I wanted him to know I had a bra. Girl thing, OK. Get over it, Daddy."

I seemed to remember him now. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Cause you are such a prude. Some days I'm amazed I even exist. Mike's glad, though. He says you did good."

"Mike is current?"

"Double duh. Daddy, I like Mike, lots. So do you. He's coming over in a few to pick me up. We're going to shoot some hoops. We aren't doing anything else, Daddy, honest. I'm taking care of myself. Well, kissing, maybe. But not making out kissing."

"Jerame, you don't have to tell me."

"I know, but I want to. I want you to know I'm doing OK, not lonely or bored. I'm gonna have a good future, with or without Mike. I know where I'm going. You helped me, Daddy, by letting me live here for a minute."

"A minute?"

"OK, for almost an hour. Here." She touched my heart. "You let me live here. But, before I go, I need something."

Jerame tugged me off the couch and crushed herself against me. I hugged her back for a minute, then started to let go. "Stay, Daddy, stay. Please. Till you go back to sleep. Hold me."

I held her, my little girl soon to be gone. And we drifted together into sleep.


The cat banging on the deck door woke me up. 5:23 now. 47 minutes. The cat gave me 47 minutes to meet a girl, my girl, who never really existed.

Who was she? Although a dream, she seemed so real, as if I were meeting someone who might have happened, with detailed features, conversation, and a personality uniquely hers. Someone.

I’m writing down what I remember of the dream, mostly because of the very last thing she said before we drifted off.

“Promise you won’t forget me?” she asked, whispering in my ear.

“How?” I must have known it was a dream, or I wouldn’t have asked.

“Blog me, Daddy.”

So, Jerame, my little girl, wherever you are. Consider yourself blogged and not forgotten. Take care.