uhhh, no title yet for this story either. :c somehow, this story was the result of listening to this music


"She's really gone", I think to myself as the wind tickles my shoulders. Every winter sky since then has been painted with the same dreary shade of grey; to me atleast. My daughter taps my shoulder, asking "Why is the sky blue?" I don't see it. Sometimes in the spring, she tugs the hem of my shirt, saying, "look at all these pretty flowers". I admire the yellow daffodils she holds in her small hands. Or are they tulips? I was never really good with names. I have only a few important people in my life right now; Really, I could list them all on one hand. That's one...my daughter; two and three...my very close friends; four...my mother; and five... I draw my thumb back and rest my palm in my pocket. This morning is the fifth anniversary of the passing of my wife.

Isabelle is five years old. The angelic curtain of blonde hair is draped against her face in several thick curls. Her eyes are tiny treasures; each one a captivating mix of green and gold. She is always wearing a curious expression. Night or day, her face has been lit up by the sun. When I see her, I feel the corners of my lips rise. Sometimes in the summer, I feel her tug my hand, and she says, "look at the pretty sunrise". I drowsily open both eyes and can sense the awe in her face, as she turns to the window. Gradually, she becomes a silhouette as a background of pastel pinks, purples, and oranges emerges.

We're walking together hand in hand through a nature trail in the midst of autumn. The luminous leaves surround us on every towering tree. Occasionally a breeze carries a few to the ground. Sometimes, she catches a falling leaf and exclaims, "look at all these pretty leaves". Vibrant reds, yellows, greens, and even dull browns are all cherished by her. We see couples walking together holding hands. Isabelle points her tiny finger and whispers to me, "She is very pretty". I nod and squeeze her hand. A moment later she will ask, "Was mommy pretty?" Her face beams as I gaze at her. For a moment, I see her mother smiling back at me.

I stand here on the porch, bothered by the hiss of frigid air. I watch her trot around the thick white blanket covering the yard. Her curls dance and her cheeks and nose share a bright, rosy tint. Now she's running towards me, clutching her finger. I kneel to the ground, and we are eye to eye. Her face is contorted into a tear soaked pout. I gently brush the blonde curls behind her red ears, kiss her icy finger, and wipe her cheeks with my mitten. I see the pain in her eyes brimming with every tear. For a moment, I see her mother five years ago.

The warm aroma of hot chocolate fills our lungs as we snuggle on the couch together. Her enchanting green eyes and wide grin tell me that she has already forgotten the pain she was just in. Often times, she giggles, and reminds me everything of her mother. She paid attention to the beauty of smaller things. She refused to let her pain conquer her. She colored her world with everything but negativity. I catch another glimpse of Isabelle. Her tender, smiling face lights up. My wife has not weaned away from this earth. This morning, I'm looking right at her.

**
4 / 28 / 2011