I marvelled at the little sleeping face, so troubled before my story. The hand lost in mine was now relaxed as she dreamed of the fairy coaches drawn by magical dragon flies.
The weight of the world had been on her mind. So young to be asking why a man would beat his wife and then turn on his children; why some people die in an earthquake and some survive through sheer miracles. She has not been a beaten child, rather the opposite; but the effect on her is the same as if she had. She plays music to soothe the world and is hurt when yet another disaster or tragedy takes place. As she grows so does her passion for her music; it becomes her solace. Like a tiny seed she stretches out her roots for sustenance and her place in the world; her leaves are tempted out of their casing to explore and the flower is forming to blossom all too soon for me - but not for her.
Beautiful!
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