Elegy for the girl in the red dress

Maybe the words stumbled from his mouth as he said them; maybe he shouted them from the rooftop.
But you felt it in his hands when he guided your first steps, felt it in his arms when he shared the joys of your triumphs or the sorrows of the moments of loss and worry.
Maybe it was just a look, a soft stare, a reflective glance while you chatted away filling the lost time with all you could say about your life; maybe he just caught your eye and smiled.
The love and protection he offered as a child deepened and changed over time to appreciation, respect and awareness of your accomplishments even as you remained his little girl, seeking approval, the dream he had for you, the opportunities he helped create fulfilled.

And now the role has changed. It is you who offers compassion in kind words, remembered times. It is you who offers the consoling hand. The pressure of the hand remains.

Life is being.
So stand to face the rising sun and breathe in those things of meaning you and he created, absorb the colors and sounds of places, dwell in those spells of silence, those moments of incomprehensible understanding.

The cool breeze will brush your cheek, toss back your hair; your busy hands will look for something to hold.
Hold to him and yourself. All is intertwined.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I have written at least three complete novels, have three others started and on my website michaelstephendaigle.com is the draft chapter of the latest effort,"The Swamps of Jersey."
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