I want to take you anywhere, but only the prettiest view. Perhaps a hidden place where the waves and land kissed — where the sea sleeps, or a desert; gazing at whatever we could find in the very dark wide sky. I want to carry you anywhere, but only to the most beautiful sides of the world: a blooming field, a glistening lake, a sea of city lights, the blanket house I built for us, my arms — anywhere the world could never hurt you.
“Sing me a song.” You murmuring under my chin.
“I can’t sing,” not as mesmerizing as yours, “but I do love stories. Storytelling time?” All I get is a little nod from your head. The small one. Then I burst into laughter.
I have this story I created inside my tiny head, the retelling of Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. The thing about this tale is, that not every wolf is big and bad. This little girl meets a big-not-bad-wolf on the south hill of the forest, and he loves hugs! Mr. Wolf is assisted in giving hugs to everyone in the valley, particularly those seeking peace. Hug, for him, is the simplest yet greatest thing God’s creatures share. A hug can heal a wounded soul. A hug is free therapy. And nothing is more warm than a hug.
See? Not every wolf is big and bad.
“I know that everyone may be a villain in someone else’s story. But — “ Just for a second, I find your eyes and a heavy soul within them.” — some of them, I believe, are simply misunderstood.”
“Isn’t it unfair to make people think they are not and never will be good enough, not even for being the main character of their lives?” My hand stops playing over your coarse hair — did they put too much spray on it? A sigh runs out of my breath. “Why can’t people be appreciated for just simply existing?”
“I see,” you say with a smile, “you’re mad. I know.” You take my hand and put it back where it was before. “But isn’t it unfair too to stop stroking my hair when I am about to fall asleep? Over those mean people?” Then you close both of his eyes. “Continue, please.”
“You little brat.” Again, I laugh.
It takes a few minutes of silence for us. As awestruck as me seeing you sleep so safe and sound on my lap, I wonder if you’re still here.
“Hey, Christopher,” I whisper.
“I may be small neither can fight.” The wrinkles on your forehead become less prominent. “But I am good at swearing or cursing. So if anyone, even this world, dares to put their finger on you, tell me. I am going to grawrawrgrr them.”
