Daddy’s office in the attic is two flights up from our apartment.  I walk up the dark, narrow, wooden staircases to bring him a lunch that Mom made, peppers and eggs, on Italian bread.  The eaves of the roof press into the room at a harsh slant.  He hunches over a drafting table, covered by white paper with curled edges, and a metal, hand-crank pencil sharpener that sits at a corner.  The table faces the street side of the house where sunlight struggles through a keyhole window, and sounds carry up to us, delivery trucks chug by, cars blare horns at a traffic light, a train shrieks its horn in the train yard.  He hands me pencils that I put into the sharpener, turn the handle slowly, listen to the grind of wood, lay the pencils orderly in a row, like soldiers waiting their turn to be held so he can draw mathematical lines and numbers.  His protractor flips circular cartwheels as he figures out technical drawings of weights and devices, how to make things turn, how to make things work.

             “Smartie, go help your Mother.  I need to work and make a lot of money for you,” smiles Daddy.

            In 1967, he makes a drawing, a twelve-year wedding anniversary gift, for Mom, at the drafting table.  With an artful skill, using colored pencils, he draws portraits of my sisters and me.  Above each, he tapes a black and white photo, taken in a booth at Woolworth’s Five-and-Ten store.  We wear matching, floral print dresses with Peter Pan collars, of soft, rounded corners, and string bow ties.  With promising smiles, sunny eyes, and sleek, just-brushed, side-parted hair, our images are arranged by our ages of ten, eight, six, and four.  Gentle blue, yellow, pink, and green shading tones the background.  He adds our nicknames, Happy-Go-Lucky, Smartie, Hot Stuff, and Mona Lisa, and item numbers in technical block hand-lettering.  Compass arrows with a question mark hint at what item number might be next.  He writes, “Mix four items together and bake well:  Wow!  Happy Anniversary.  Love, Joe.”

Two years later, when Daddy can’t make things work, my parents’ divorce, Mom moves us out of our house in a hurry, and many things get thrown out.  She saves the drawing and her wedding album.  Sometimes, I need to be reminded of my nickname because no one calls me that anymore.  I sneak into Mom’s bedroom dresser, where the drawing’s protected, to look at Smartie recorded on paper.

Over the years, I ask Mom if I can have the drawing, her marriage memento, but she says no.  I guess she needs to be reminded of different times, too.  I want to remember the sweet side of Daddy, especially when no one says that he had a sweet side.  When I’m in my thirties, Mom finally gives me the drawing.  It is in fragile condition.

“I know you appreciate old things, Jeanne, and that you’ll take care of it,” said Mom.

That’s true.  It’s been many years since I needed to be reminded of my nickname.  I keep the forty-nine year-old drawing to remind me of my parents’ love.  It is the sweetest wedding anniversary gift that I’ve ever seen, one that money can’t buy.