“Teagen!”
she cries, her frightened voice
drifting
down the hall and through the two
doors
separating us.
Her
call jolts me awake
from my
attempt at a nap beside my
love’s
warm body—soft, sculpted, secure,
though
he has yet to see that
in
himself.
Her
room is a tumble of stuffed
toys,
blankets, and dress up clothes.
At the
white and pink bed, she
half
sits, half stands, rubbing her
eyes,
blonde hair tousled.
“What
is it, baby?” Kneeling before
her
pink clothed form, frail and small,
the
only word she seems to know is no.
Wrapped
gently in my arms, her head
lolls
on my shoulder. She is a stubborn
one,
determined her naptime is over
and her
father, my love, will not do; in my lap,
she
sits and makes a bed of my belly and bosom
where
she alternates between quiet contentedness
and a
restless search for awakeness.
The
soothing swaying of the armchair is spoiled by
incessant
squeaking, so I settle for holding her
and
renew the search for my own sleep.
Moments
later, she slips from my lap
in a
whirlwind of energy, and begs, jumping—
her
white blonde curls flying up—for the movie with cat bus.
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