In first grade my class was given an art project for
Christmas. Our assignment was to make a
clay star for our parents. My star was
coated in glitter and my young eyes saw it as stellar. As we prepared to leave class for Christmas vacation,
I gingerly wrapped my star for safekeeping and placed it in my coat pocket.
Excited to bring my star home I hurriedly exited the bus,
tripped and fell (no surprise to anyone that knows me.) My masterpiece snapped in half. Torn pants and a skinned knee were of little
consequence to me. Broken hearted I
cried all the way home. My tears continued
as Guido cleaned and patched my scrapes.
Inconsolable, my father translated my gasping operatic sobs
to be, “broken star for you and mother,
your present is ruined.” He looked at me, smiled, and said, “we can mend this,” finally taking a
breath, hope started to bubble up.
Guido presented the mended star to me, promising not to tell
my mother and assuring me no one would know the difference. As the waterworks started up again he asked
why I was still crying. “You fixed my star; you put it all together
again.” Guido’s words, “Rita, that’s what daddy’s do, they fix
broken stars that’s Daddy magic.”
As I grew older and more than a clay star shattered, Guido would
give me words of advice, promise it would be better, and either say to me or
sign his letters, “your daddy, the star fixer.” And
you know what – somehow what ever it was - at any age - his special magic
always worked.
Even though he is no longer here to sign his letters or mend
what breaks I can hear his comforting voice. To all the fathers who fix broken stars I wish
you a Happy Father’s Day.
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