His eyes widened when he heard my question penetrating the silence. He moved towards me, swiftly yet thoughtfully, contemplating a response. Unable to conceive a more appropriate reaction, he began to gently stroke my hair as I numbly awaited an answer. When no answer seemed to come, I grabbed his hand and removed it from my head. I held his hand firmly in mine and uttered my question once more. He squeezed my hand and whispered in response, “Who’s my little Chickamunga?”

Upon hearing that, I nearly jumped out of bed. I threw my arms around him and embraced him. As ridiculous as it sounded, it meant something to me. I couldn’t place quite where it came from or what I should respond with but something in my soul told me that it was a sign. It didn’t matter what it had meant in the past, because now it meant the answer to all my questions. It was confirmation to me that this was my father and that he loved me. With the realization of all these things, I fell to tears, my father’s strong arms supporting me.