Monday, November 10, 2008


What I really care about is making Daddy well again. I watch him from my bedroom, sneak a peek around the doorway and see him down the hallway, rocking in his chair. He is hunched forward into a half ball, his chin on his chest and though I can't see his eyes from here, I know they look empty. I watch him from the hallway. He doesn't notice me. HIs face is long and sad and he spends hours like this, staring at his hands that are folded like unused napkins in his lap.

Mum says its the war, but daddy hasn't been to war, so I don't understand why that makes him so sad. Last night, I saw him down in the lounge, alone in the half dark, the light of the T.V glowing softly on his sad face. I crept down the hallway and then stood right beside him. 
"Daddy, can you read me a story," I asked him. A long moment went by and then he pulled his head up like it weighed more than a house, and he stared at me with his grey empty eyes.
"Not now, darling...I'm busy," he said.

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