My dad was a storyteller. 

At night after I’d taken my bath and put on my pajamas, daddy would tuck me in my bed and then sit at the foot of it. 

“Once there was a little girl named Kelli,” he’d begin. 

“Kelli, like me?” I’d ask excitedly. 

He’d put his finger to his mouth. “Shh, shh. Let me tell the story.” 

He’d begin again. 

“Once there was a little girl named Kelli - not Kelli Rose.” 

I would laugh and he’d try his best not to. 

His laugh is one of the things I miss the most. 

When he laughed, his shoulders would shake and his laughter made his eyes squint.

It was as if his laughter filled him up to overflow. 

Once, dad and I camped out in the backyard. 

We bought a tent from Mr. Meredith at True Value Hardware, along with some sleeping bags, flashlights, and bunsen burners (which, by the way, we never used, and we ended up eating breakfast in the house the next morning).

As the blue sky began to turn dark, daddy and I marched out the back door to our spot under the tree in the backyard. 

Daddy put up the tent while I did ballerina moves in the driveway. Mom watched us from the kitchen window shaking her head. 

Once he finished putting up the tent, we climbed inside and sat on our sleeping bags.

“What are we gonna do?” I asked.

Daddy looked at me and said, “Once upon a time…” and I settled in. 

He told me stories of “Ona cona poona wonas” (magic rocks that turned into fairies or little drummers - depending on the story.) He told me stories of him and his brother Billy (John) from when they were kids. He told me stories of kind people. He told me Bible stories, with a bit of creative license, that left me laughing. 

I knew my daddy was getting ready to leave this earth when his stories began to slow. My visits involved us sitting quietly, watching the news or "Wheel of Fortune". On commercial breaks, I walked over and rubbed his hair then kissed his forehead. There weren’t any words left to be said. 

He told me a story when he left me a voice message of him talking to my Aunt's dog Sammie, not realizing my voice mail was recording him. 

He told me a story when he got to see the kids 3 days before he passed. I asked, “Daddy, are you happy?" Too weak to talk, he let a tear fall down his face and lifted his hand as if waving. 

He told me a story as I drove for 80 minutes, the morning dad passed, to tell my mom the news in person. As I drove, I noticed the sky was filled with breathtaking hues of orange and purple.

He told me a story as I picked out his navy pinstripe suit, paisley pocket square, his favorite tie, and socks to match - his favorite suit to be worn one last time. 

He told me a story when I found my senior picture in his wallet behind his library card, insurance card, and voter's registration card. 

He’s been gone for a year and he’s still telling me a story. 

“Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Kelli Rose. She was my daughter and my friend. One day, when this life is over, she’ll see me again in the Promised Land. And we’ll live happily ever after.” 

Rest on my daddy and friend. 

I’ll keep telling your story 

And writing mine. 

Kelli Kinney Brownlee - 2021