“Daddy Dewey, Daddy Dewey!” they called,
squealing out the thrill of his return after a long day.
Perhaps they called him that because of all that he would “do”.
Perhaps it was just one of those things
started in a moment of kidding and laughter
and never quite had a reason or a start.
He would envelope them, as many as he could, in his arms
carrying a few of the youngest along as he found his way
through blocks, bikes, dolls
and other debris of the afternoon’s play
to kiss their Mother with all the joy that love allows.
As his eyes would flash between them and
each would start some tale of the day,
some complaining, some bragging
and some just wanting for him to hear.
He would move, being sure to touch each one,
sure to give each one a bit; a wink there, a nod here,
a ruffled head of hair, a cheek lightly touched, a kiss.
And the tiniest on his lap and a peaceful smile on his lips,
they would urge, “Daddy Dewey, Daddy Dewey, read us a story!”
And he would.