Every night, a little girl told stories to her father.
He would lie down on a bed that squeaked, in an old, vintage room that was lit by a small, antique lamp. It was a very small room. Three people could not move in the place. For two people, it was fine; a better fit than that of three. It was really a room for the comfort of one.
Then, the little girl would sit beside her father, hugging her stuffed penguin. Her hair would be messily put up in high pigtails. It was her favorite hairstyle; her only hairstyle, since it is the only thing her father was able to perfect. She would talk about princes and princesses, dragons and ogres, mermaids and centaurs, god and goddesses. Who would have thought that these would come from the mouth of an eight-year-old?
Now, her father was quite an old man himself— wrinkled skin, grayish hair and a pair of worn-out spectacles. His body may still be strong for a fifty-nine-year old, yet his eyes scream exhaustion. He worked all day under the sun, in the constructions.
One day, her father went home a little bit later than usual. As he burst into the house, he demanded for his food. The little girl hurriedly prepared his dinner and placed the plate in front of him. The food seemed quite delicious, but there was something certainly wrong...
"DID YOU POUR ALL THE SALT IN THIS?" exclaimed the father, spitting out his spoonful, because the food was indeed salty. The little girl have never cooked anything as salty as today's dish. He did not receive any reply, except for a quiet achoo.
He stormed out and went into their room. The little girl followed promptly. He laid in his working clothes, snoring softly. The little girl went to his side and started telling her story.
"You know what, papa? I had a blast! Today, I was a cowgirl, and I have a horse! And then..."
Although he was tired, angry, and half asleep, the father listened intently to her story, for he loved listening to his daughter's stories.
This went on and on, for months.
On a cold February night, the father came home to an unusual silent house, no lights, no cackling of dishes, just a peaceful old cottage. He went in, lit a candle, and smelled the rather sumptuous dinner served on the table.
While eating, he looked around. The place was sparkling clean. The books were stacked neatly, the furniture was dusted, and there was no sign of dirt on the floor. How wonderful, thought the father.
He then laid his eyes on their coffee table of pictures and scrapbooks. An unseen forced dragged him to it. Suddenly, his hands were maneuvering the framed photos displayed on the table. One was a picture of his wife wearing a red dress— the photo he took on their first date. Then, a soft thud was created by a book that fell. He opened the book and immersed himself immediately with the pictures of the scrapbook his wife made, about five years ago. This hold memories, the best of ones, for him.
As he turned the last page, on the picture of his daughter, something fell on his lap— a lily, fresh and full of color. He smiled and returned the book.
When entered the room, he saw the little girl sitting on the bed, waiting patiently for her father.
She stood on the bed, embraced her arms around her father's neck, and kissed him on the cheek.
"You know what, papa? I was an angel today! Jesus told me that I could get a glimpse of Paradise, so I grabbed his hand and followed him. He even gave me a pair of wings!"
"Mm-hmm."
"It was far more than beautiful! It was majestic! There were mountains, and rivers, and valleys, and the angels were singing harmoniously! And I was able to make a new friend!" she exclaimed.
"Tell me about your new friend."
"She is also an angel, the youngest of them all, and I saw her crying in one of the banks of the river. I asked her why. She told me that there was a king whom she loved like that of a father. She was very grateful to the king for giving her wings. Some angels weren't lucky enough to get back their wings after doing something wrong. Although my angel friend would make little mistakes, she told me that the king would still give her another chance, another opportunity to get her wings. My friend was very thankful, but she was sad."
"Why?" The father laid in bed, yawning, getting ready to sleep.
The little girl frowned.
"The king spends so much time in his work, and with his servants, yet he had no time for his little angel."
The little girl could see that her father's eyes were closing.
"Do you know what's the best part of Paradise?" She smiled.
"I have no idea," the old man chuckled. His eyes were drooping out of exhaustion from the past few weeks. His mind was flying like that of a drunkard that was about to go blank. He pulled his blanket to his neck.
"Mommy is there too."
"That is truly beautiful," he uttered, rather unclear for he was only half awake.
The little girl knew that her father did not know what he was talking about.
Realizing that her father had already snoozed, the little girl stood up quietly from the bed, and then kissed her father— one on the forehead, and then on both cheeks.
"Goodnight, papa," she whispered. She left the room with an innocent thud of the door.
The window was shut close, but the wind was icy and cold. It blew the side of the blanket, and made the father cold.
Then, a small, gentle hand pulled the blanket up to the father's chin. It was warm and soft, like that of an angel.
It was the first time that the father was able to sleep soundly. He snored heavily under the thin sheet of blanket.
