Three a.m. my daughter bursts into my room rambling about rain. I understood nothing that she said except the word rain. It was not raining at the time. What? Just get in…I tell her. She climbs over me stabbing me repeatedly with elbows and knees. She squeezes in tight against me. Her skin is cool. I begin to drift when I feel her slip her tiny hand into mine. My heart melts. I linger there holding her hand trying to be in that moment but knowing any second she will pull it away. I linger too much. I like lingering. That’s why I write I guess…to linger…to experience moments again and again…relive and relive and retell. There…it’s gone now. She turned and took her hand with her.
The morning was quite different. She woke much earlier than I. And what better playground than my nightstand. By the time I opened my eyes she had emptied my water bottle into the bed. I was lying in a pool. Barely able to speak I yell…What the hell? And then I notice her. Sitting on the bed with fistfuls of white cream. What is that? What is that? On the bed floating in the pool the depleted tube of Hydrocortisone cream. I use it when she complains that her mosquito bites are itchy. Releasing a grunt/moan/swear I quickly pull off her t-shirt and clean her hands with it. All the while she is looking at me as if to say: I was wondering how long it was going to take you to wake up and catch me destroying everything. I was about to smear this on your laptop.
She softens my heart with her little affections and then whacks me in the shin with her bat of mischievousness. My days are a constant flux between “awww” and “Fuck!”.
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