A breath of pure life tugs on my shirt until I finally put my pencil down, close the pages of my life, and pay her some mind. Her glimmering, bulging brown eyes catch on to a beam of light just right.
The glow instilled within them is enough for me to allow some stress to subside and a smile to pierce through the corners of my mouth. She begs to read the mysterious book laying at my fingertips. Before I have time to deny her innocent request, my life is snatched away and in the hands of a giggling little girl. I find myself trapped in the thoughts of how foolish it is to believe a young girl as herself would understand what’s amongst the pages. Pulling me from my thoughts, she knocks her fist on my knee as if it were a locked door.
“You only write sad stuff.” Her tone of voice doesn’t hold disappointment or plead for an answer as to why I do. Instead, she pans through the pages to a poem I wrote with bloody legs, weary hands, and a broken heart.
She pulls me in closer and cuffs her hands around my ear. With a tear rolling down her cheek and a quivering voice, she whispers, “This one’s my favorite.”