A WARM HEART

Dear Gaga:

It's been just over a year since you left us, and I wanted to let you know that I'm still keeping my promise.

I'm taking care of your "littlest angel." And of the tiny one that you called "my littlest littlest angel" — the girl I call "Spike."

Oh, I know you didn't like that. But there's a method to our madness, there really is. And you'll be happy to know that, despite her nickname and much to her father's chagrin, she prefers dresses to pants and likes to wear her hair in bows. She dances until she's dizzy. And she likes to pretend she's Cinderella.

At the same time, she'll pitch off her tricycle at full throttle, hit the floor with a thud and be back on her feet before the bike rolls to a stop. She doesn't mind getting dirty. And she's not shy around anyone anymore.

She's tough. And in that way, she takes after you.

She asks about you all the time. At first we told her that you were in our hearts — and that's true. But after a while, the literal idea of that was sort of freaking her out. So finally your littlest angel told your littlest littlest angel that you died and went to heaven. And that's true, too.

She knows a lot about you, too. She knows that you were a great cook and that you were a kind person. She knows that you had soft hands and a warm heart.

She knows that you were her great grandmother.

And we won't let her forget.

I promise.

Love,
Spike's dad