“There’s a swirl of color printed on my skin. There’s a dash of love sown into my arm. All of these dots and hues were etched into me with care and passion. Once, they were so full of power and flavor. Back then they nearly popped off my arm with their brilliance. But now, all my colors have faded into time’s grasp. The clock’s burning hands have washed them dry of their vibrancy. Like me, the spirited shades have grown a little past their prime. But these lines still draw up warm notions. They will always remind me of the best days of my youth. I see the most fantastic memories in my mind every time I glance at these lines and colors. Fleeting images from the most cherished days of my life stretch across my mind when I see these vanishing hues.
“These stains were inked into my arm long, long ago; but the feelings captured by these engravings will never dissolve with time or death. The burning hands of the clock may chew away my swirls and dots, but they’ll never rub the stories from my mind. The burning hands may even melt away my colors, but they’ll never erase the stories hidden in these lines. And one day those burning hands will steal my flesh and bones, but the feeling I get when I see these dashes and swirls will never leave my heart. This feeling and those stories are locked away my heart and stitched in my mind. Forever.
“I always feel the same soothing bolts of emotion when I see these dots and letters here. They shoot across my chest and light up my eyes with that same innocent wonder that infects every child. These splotched bits of color are reminders of my adventurous days. They’re reminders of a true sense of freedom and bliss. But those stories are over and have been for years. These dots and letters here are reminders of the most interesting story yet. They remind me of the story I’m still working on. And one day, all of these stories will survive those burning hands on the clock. These stories will be your reminders. They’ll tell you everything your mom and I did with you. They’ll be your map, your guide.”
“Are you coming to bed?”
“Yeah dear, I’ll be right in.”
He gently placed a kiss on his daughter’s cheek. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was deep. Once again he was able to whisper to her until she was asleep. He set her in the crib carefully, making sure it was clear of all blankets and toys. She hardly tussled as he let go of her body. She was sound asleep. He turned and backed up toward the door. Hesitation filled his being and constricted his muscles.
“She’ll be fine babe, come to bed.”
The man smiled and closed his daughter’s door part way. I hope the burning hands on my clock tick slowly. I don’t want to miss anything she does. I want to be there to see her begin to write her story, to see her first bits of ink and swirl of colors.