She said, “Tell me a story.”
She more pleaded then told. She requested – and who could deny the ask?
She, with ocean eyes and a constant curled lip – like spring was always in season.
So he said, “Ok, I will.”
And he did.
His words moved – they broke up the empty bed time spaces. She hated those empty spaces. Between weariness and slumber. Between this world and closed eye dreaming.
She was tired but the spaces always felt long and cold.
But stories always made the spaces move and dance and speak. Her father’s stories were told in a deep but tender voice that he usually only talked with Mama in. And the drama seemed real.
Bedtime drama. She was in need of it today. After the hurtful words from school; he made it feel like another narrative was possible – maybe even more real than this one.
Was that silly? It was certainly childish – she thought. But then – Dad had always said it was a pity that some people grow beyond children.
She left the silliness alone. She held onto the characters and her dad’s pauses.
He was good at this. And she was glad her mind could dream before sleep.