It's a warm afternoon and a cool breeze is caressing your face ever so gently, with your hair flicking a bit. I help you occasionally by removing it from your face and you smile in appreciation, I then lean in to kiss the scar on your forehead. I love how you tell the story of how you got to have it and you have a love-hate relationship with it but I don't really mind it. I think it adds some uniqueness to your face, it's cute. "Besides", I say, "scars are just tattoos with better memories; they are reminders of how much stronger you are than whatever tried to hurt you".
Your eyes light up and you beam in delight. I put my arm around you and continue to tell you how beautiful you are, you giggle and tell me to stop, deep down wishing I wouldn't... and I don't.
I know this walk will lead to a photoshoot because I like taking pictures of you and I also know that you like pretending to hate it but you secretly like it since you always strike the best poses.
In the midst of our laughter and picture taking, mostly your pictures of course, I pause and reflect; I should have been there and saved you from all the heartbreak, all the chance takers and liars. You sense that I've tensed up and ask me what's wrong, "nothing, cupcake," I reply and we continue with our walk. I say a silent prayer, thanking the Almighty for His kindness, for if it wasn't for His love, I wouldn't know yours.
