Angel was still deep in her sorrow the next morning. Her eyes were red and her face was puffy and when I turned to face her in the cold blue light of dawn, she stared right through me.
Angel had withdrawn into herself, closing the door behind her - a door painted the dark unfamiliar shade of grief and mourning trimmed out with the tarnished brass of personal horror.
It was past noon when I felt her stir and she shook the sleeves of her sweatshirt until her small pale hands emerged and threaded their way around me, her arms gathering me to her as she pressed her forehead lightly against my cheek.
“Thank you for loving me.” she whispered, “Even now.”
My Angel was coming back to me and I slowly painted her hair and forehead with light kisses and just did that one thing that I knew how to do - I loved her.
“Thank you for being soft with me.” her whispered words like wisps of feathers, “For holding me so gently when my heart is broken to pieces and I’m not giving anything back.”
I felt my eyes well as tears of gratitude overflowed for my girl reemerging.
“Thank you for walking with me when I feel lost. For guiding me home - always home where I’m safe.” her voice hitched and I felt her tears on my cheek, “Thank you for being you, Jackson.”
We held each other as the light faded from the world outside.
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