My dad passed away five years and nine days ago. When I was little, I used to lie across his lap every evening while he read the paper or watched TV. He rubbed and scratched my back, a task at which he was an expert. I’d lay there as long as he’d allow, usually until his legs went to sleep. There was safety and love in his touch. The years passed, and I continued to lie in his lap until I was too big to fit across his chair.