Halo

He watched her in her deepest sleep, feeling slightly guilty for doing so. She would have been embarassed, he thought, if she would up. She’d groan and shoo him out of the room. But it was all right, he thought to himself. He could watch his own daughter sleeping, if only for a little while.

Her soft hair looked like some sort of strange golden cloud around her head. Like a halo, he thought, and then brushed the thought away. She wasn’t an angel. She was just a girl. An imperfect, loud, happy girl with no understanding of fashion but perfect understanding of snowflakes, and the way to ride a bike down a steep hill without falling off, and the taste of strawberry ice cream from their parlor that he’d often drive them to after a long day.

She was perfect in the most imperfect way, and just like him when he was a boy.

Was it bad to be watching her sleep like this?

Perhaps. But he couldn’t help it. He was so proud of her, of the person she was becoming. She had a face so strikingly like her mother’s.

Her mother.

He sighed and bit back the tears that came almost immediately. They could get through this. They had to.

He missed her so much. He wished that she could be here to watch this beautiful kid grow up. But you can’t bring back the dead.

He left the room.