By Jing Villamil

 

SUCH small soft hands. For such a small soft child. Flesh of my flesh, bones of my bones, blood of my blood.

She brushed my curls way up and back. She smoothed the deep frowns. She poked wide the eyes, pinched the nose, stretched the lips for a wide weird smile.

All the while, sounds of hums sighs puffs came from her small soft mouth.

“Come on Lol,” close to my ear she said, she blew. “Wake up, get up! Stir! You can not just lay here, or sit or stand still out there. And watch the grass grow green to brown while the world wail sail slink from dawn to dusk to black night. It is mad, it is too sad!

You gave your word! Not to stop – not now, not yet – to tell your tales. To me, to the souls who float and swish by us; to the good man with white hair who breaths faith in you that you ‘still will’ write; to them whose lives you paint in words I love! For they flow so free so light from your heart, in joy or in tears!”

And then the dear child, she slapped slapped slapped my cheeks with her small soft hands!

And so, you “still will” read my tales. Not in streams, but in bursts of spring. A lark in a trill of a song. A spark, a spurt of light. In a day gone dark.

Oh. She, so small and so soft, is so old at six years of age. And she does talk like that. Like her mad, sad Lol.

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