She sleeps, her tattered sheep loved hard and long beside her, her bear blanket pinched between her fingers satin side up so she can rub it against her skin as she turns or moves from one dream to the next. Her hair lies softly about her face, a golden brown frame. Her skin is soft as chenille, with a glow that emanates from within her in the pale moonlit room. Her breathing is easy through her full, pale, pink lips, her breath faintly reminiscent of the scent of an angel.
Through the night, in the monitor, I hear her talking in her sleep of flying ponies, laughing, or singing part of some happy song. There is the occasional nightmare where she cries because the ladybug has flown away or someone has taken her doll. Her tears rolling, large upon her sun kissed cheeks. Then I take her to our bed where she tosses and turns and pushes and pulls until she has taken up the most room she can and has all the covers to herself.
Finally after one too many groans from her papa as she again flops her arm on his head, I take her back to her bed. She doesn’t want to go, but I insist. So I sit beside the bed rubbing her back gently until she makes her way back to dream land. She tries to prolong the time by tossing and turning and attempting to ask one more question.
“Go to sleep baby,” I whisper. Finally she does and I stumble back to my own bed smiling at her sweetness. My dreams far less wonderful, my nightmares far more dangerous, my wish that her dreams remain forever sweet and innocent and her nightmares no more scary then her ice cream falling on the ground