Charlie's Angel

22

 "Hi Daddy," I whispered, already tearing up as I gazed upon the smooth marble gravestone in front of me. My fingers ached to reach out and touch the engraved message inscribed across the surface. But I fought the urge to do so, feeling my heart drop at the realization that it was real. My father, my hero, my best friend, was gone. And he was never coming back. Seven years after his passing, and I still hadn't completely accepted it. It hurt, like pouring salt on an open wound or getting stabbed in the gut. "I miss you."

Micah Orion Harris

He was a best friend before he was a soldier

Matthew 5:4

The marble was cold and smooth, except for the engraving of the words along with a plaque with some of his accomplishments on it. I sat in silence and read of the words numerous times, remembering one of my favorite memories with him.

"I can't do it!" I shouted at myself, wiping some of my curls from my face. I flopped to the floor with irritation, crossing my arms and poking out my bottom lip to pout. My face warmed with the oncoming tears that I held back and I hugged my knees to my chest to cry into my thighs. I had been practicing ballet for three hours in our studio in the basement and I couldn't perfect my Chassé.

There was a knock on the door and I looked up into the wall mirrors to see my father peeking his head in. I wiped my snotty nose on my arm and looked up at him with red eyes.

I was six.

He was smiling at me, obviously proud of my dedication to practice. I turned down a play date to practice this move, and I still came up fruitless.

"Hi Cupcake," he murmured. "Are you okay?"

I shrugged, avoided eye contact. "I can't do it, Daddy."

"Do what?" He walked further in and sat on one of the stools by the opposite wall.

"My Chassé." I had just lost both of my front teeth so my vocab was not up to par, and he laughed at me butchering the word. "'S too hard."

"Well lemme see what you're doing." My dad got me into ballet when I was three and supported me whenever he was home. He went to my recitals and brought me flowers after every single one and treated me and my mom to ice cream. He made it his priority to familiarize himself with all of the vocabulary and all of the different moves so he could help when I wasn't with my instructor, Miss Sheila.

I stood to my feet, dressed in my pink leotard, my pink ballet flats, white tights and a pink tutu and my hair in a perfect bun from my mother's doing. I huffed before skipping to the other side of the room and trying again, yet again tripping over my feet. I bit the dust, smacking my forehead against the wood floor, and yelped out before breaking down altogether.

He collected me into his arms and stroked my back while I hiccuped some cries to quiet myself, locking my arms around his neck. He was laughing softly at me, but I had no clue why.

"Lemme see," he cooed. I pulled away so he could check out my forehead and it stung to the touch. He kissed it softly, then my nose, and finally my cheek until I stopped altogether. "Now, I know your problem. You're taking too many steps. Think of it like skipping."

"Skipping?" I repeated as he set me to my feet. Wiping my wet eyelashes, I watched him travel to the other side of the room. "What you mean?"

"You mean, what do you mean," he chuckled. "Try this. Come here and skip for me." I raised my eyebrow at him before he nodded me on. "Just try it, Cupcake."