God poured a boundless energy, awkward angles, and strangely GRACEFUL hands into her individual design. One second fidgeting with restless legs on the sagging love-seat, to quicksilver leaping across the living room onto her father’s lap, always knees first.
“Oof!” is his involuntary response. His features twist in pain, until she looks up. Her soft brown eyes lock with his, and she asks,
“You ok, Daddy?”
With herculean effort, he tries to contort his grimace into an actual smile.
“I’m fine, baby.”
She beams, little white teeth with gaps in the front. Her small pink tongue pushes involuntarily through the opening.
“I love you, Daddy,” she pushes as close to him as is humanly possible, curling into a semi-fetal position. He notes her hair smells like the green apple of her Suave kids shampoo.
He marvels at the fact that this running bomb of energy can gently grip the smallest of nails, and skillfully hammer and build stuff most preschoolers can’t-birdhouses, the frame to her sandbox. She works on car models with patience, as well.
He kisses the top of her honey-colored hair, wrapping arms around her.
“My baby,” he murmurs.
“Silly Daddy, I’m not a baby!”
“You’re my baby,” he replies.
It will always be true.