The little girl sat at the table and colored. The kitchen was filled with the smell of all kinds of good things cooking. Her mother stirred the pot and glanced over; her eyes lingering on the little girl’s hair and the way she squinted just a bit when her crayon approached the line. The spoon dragged across the bottom of the pot as she stirred in long, lazy loops through the thickening gravy. Her own hair hung in softer curls around her shoulders, brunette rings tinged with grey. The crocheted poncho hung loosely over her shoulders and was never tied in front because she liked to take it on and off depending on the whims of her internal thermometer.
Both looked up at the sound of father’s feet on the outside steps. When the door opened wide the little girl inhaled deeply. As the smell of the outdoors and her father filled her, without realizing, she closed her eyes, just for a second. Her mother caught the movement and smiled. Her daughter did that every time and it never got old.
Father got to the little one first and kissed the top of her head, then gathered his wife into his arms and kissed her mightily. The girl glanced back at them both and snickered, trying to make them uncomfortable, but deep down she loved it when they did that. She loved to watch them dance in the kitchen too. Their favorite song would come on the radio and mother would rest her head against father’s chest and they would sway slowly to the music. She never felt like an outsider when they did that; only safer.
Her father pulled the chair out next to her and sat down. He observed her drawing and said nothing, just watched and nodded. He leaned in and said, “I like how you used red for the trees. That’s how I would have made them if I had it to do over again.”
“Really?” the little girl asked.
“Really,” he said.
The girl’s back became a little straighter as she guided her red crayon to the next subject of her coloring. Her father would stay there and watch for as long as she drew, she knew that. In a little while her mother would put the dishes down at their places and she would put her drawing away. Dishwashing would follow dinner, and bedtime would follow that. Her parents never grew tired of being near her. And her mother never had other things to do that were more important and her father always seemed fascinated by this little one they had made.
The little girl felt safe. The little girl felt loved.
Katenotkatherine 