the earth has music for those who listen
Papa envelops me into a hug which I immediately attempt to squirm out of, because it is very difficult to observe my surroundings when someone is squishing me. And Papa is the most interesting surrounding: he feels different than when I'm sleeping, like he's a little bit rougher and maybe he smells a little bit stronger and also he's still in a teeny tiny bed, as he has pointed out, and to which I contribute "Teeny bed!" with a generous giggle. This is not what usually happens by now when we're dreaming. The whole thing is marvelously strange.
My hands are up on Papa's face; the stubble feels funny on my palms, and I rub it delightedly, peering up at him from beneath the mop of curls. "Papa's fuzzy," I inform him, and Dad as well, in case he was wondering. Satisfied with this, I again lean forward against his chest, humming happily. "Love Papa. I'm hun'ry."
My hands are up on Papa's face; the stubble feels funny on my palms, and I rub it delightedly, peering up at him from beneath the mop of curls. "Papa's fuzzy," I inform him, and Dad as well, in case he was wondering. Satisfied with this, I again lean forward against his chest, humming happily. "Love Papa. I'm hun'ry."
