See this picture?
No it’s not the lovely photo of me with Master O
and it’s not that this shelf really needs dusting,
It’s the angel, thats right, the decapitated one.
It happened during an evening game of
“Battle of the Blankets”
During this game Master O and Little Miss A wrestle with Master O’s blanket
pulling on its ends, in tug of war fashion.
Oh boy can Little Miss A put up a fight!
She may be little but she is stubborn and
will pull on Master O’s blanket with a strength that defies belief.
Suddenly she lets go.
The blanket flicks back.
Master O falls backwards hitting the wall unit.
I could see this coming…..
No one appears hurt.
Master O yells
“I’m sorry” and starts crying.
I know it must be a broken statue.
We have lost arms, legs and wings.
Casualties in a daily battle of indoor soccer, chasey, hide and seek and tripping over ones own feet.
But this time the aftermath is bloody.
It’s a head.
This poor angel could not have seen it coming.
Literally, she has no eyes.
With Master O’s sorry tears, Little Miss A begins to cry in unison.
A few hugs, condolences and promises of daddy getting out the super glue, and the situation appears resolved.
We will restore her to her former beauty.
Her hair has been left cut short, with half on her head and the rest cascading on her shoulders.
“Just like Rapunzel” Master O tells us.
We return from “operation find the super glue” but…..
the head is gone.
Master O swears it was just there.
We look behind the wall unit.
We look under the cushions.
Behind the photo frame?
She is gone, well at least her head is.
It’s late. The evenings incident has put us way behind schedule. Bed time routines begin.
Prayers are said, including one for our injured angel.
I put little Miss A to bed.
I walk out and start the evenings blog update when I hear…..
Well baby talking.
Its a soft, high pitched, loving whisper, normally reserved for her dolls and teddies.
I peek into Little Miss A’s bed and find….
Two chubby hands cradling an angels head.
She is talking to her.
Stroking her hair.
Poking the spot where the eyes should be.
Oh how I would pay a million dollars to know what she is saying to her.
Is it words of sympathy and condolence?
Is she saying sorry?
Is she just making small talk?
I disturb the conversation for a minute to record the memory
but she continues. This isn’t just a quick chat. It’s a conversation.
I wait until she is asleep,
sneak in and carefully take the angels head from its new resting place beside Little Miss A’s head.
My little angel had found an angel of her own.
To care for, protect and confide in.
She lovingly held it, seemingly unaware of its imperfections, its broken frame.
Perhaps we will leave the glue for now.