He Calls Me Fathead.
A couple weeks ago, JD and I attended In The Heights, a Broadway musical, in Hollywood. To say I loved it would be an understatement. From the opening number, I was smitten and it only got better. I now listen to the soundtrack and belt out showtunes at the start of every peaceful morning. Polo loves it.
I was so moved by the musical, I surprised my parents with tickets for last Saturday’s performance. My father texted me at intermission and said my mother cried through the entire first half. Her tears were memories from her childhood in Puerto Rico and New York. They were tears because she saw pieces of my grandmother on stage. Her tears were happy, but also longed for a life she tries to remember.
As a way to say thank you, my parents bought me a gift.
They found glasses I could use to read at night in bed. Kind of like the pair my dad bought me from a thrift store when I was a kid. But not as cool.
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