Holding her book, she sat reading in the little window nook of the front room sunlight streaming through, highlighting through her fire red hair, and casting her small face in bright and shadows. She had a halo, a curve of light that traced and breathed just slightly over the outline of her body. But it was none of this that made the breath catch in my throat or my heart beat a little faster. It was her eyes. The way they caressed the each page, a look of almost heartbreaking longing, as if she would rather be made into print herself and join the pages in their binding. Her eyes would tell me the story without even having to glance at a single page. Sometimes she would cry. Silent tears that somewhere in whatever world she was in a character shared with her. At the times where her characters were in trouble her forehead would get a little crease and her eyes would show a little alarm, just a little hint of her sympathy. And if things were really bad, her eyes would glaze over, her tiny hands would grip the covers tighter, and her breath would fight to come. Sometimes she would laugh. It would start with a slow smile, one that soon would take up her whole face. Then she would giggle, close her eyes and bring her hand to her mouth to cover the sound. Other times she couldn’t help but burst out, bending over and clutching the book to her chest before re-reading and laughing all over again. Sometimes she got angry. Her eyebrows would scrunch together and her lips would twitch while her eyes blazed hot. She would stop take a deep breath and release her fingers from their grip before looking back down and beginning again. Sometimes she would fall in love. I’d turn her way to find her gazing up at a spot of air, a small smile gracing her lips, her eyes focused, but not on anything in this world. I have to look away because the moment felt so private that I find myself scolding in my head for interrupting, yet I always allowed a tiny glance back, wishing gently that her thoughts would be of me instead. But day would soon turn to night and the evening would come. As the light outside faded I would turn on her lamp that stood at the ready and coax her into dinner, a chore she would reluctantly agree too. She eats fast while sharing with me the minor details and then would go back to reading. It was always what would come next that I hated.
Soon the window would become completely dark and the hours would turn to double digits and it would be time to tuck in to bed. So slowly I would start, first sitting by her on the floor right next to her knees. Then slowly I would lean back and rest my back on her legs my hand coming to rub her ankles. Her eyes would never lift from the page but her hand would fall to stroke my hair in a steady rhythm. Though I hated to tear her from what she loved, the clock would show the late hour, and I would be forced to softly call her name beckoning with my voice to lead her back to me. If this did not work and it seldom did, I would get up and wrap my hands around her cheeks and slowly pull her face from the page, hesitantly, for I knew what would come next. Her bright eyes would lift and meet mine so full of everything that was happening, but I knew she didn’t see me; she was still in the world of the book. Then her eyes would take focus and she would realize she wasn’t in that world, she was here, and for a second her eyebrows would pull together, her nose would crinkle, and the light would fall in despair because she knew that what she had loved so dearly for the past hours had been barely better than a daydream. But she would then smile, thank me for reminding her while grabbing my hand to lead me to bed. As we laid there, her in my arms and softly falling asleep, I would whisper to her to have dreams of the world she loved and me.