The afternoon was warm; spring—not quite there—teased everyone in the park with wisps of virgin breezes and soft rays of setting sunlight. But his mind wasn’t on the beauty of the weather. He wasn’t looking at the lake, either, though it was strong with the character of late winter rains.
No, he watched only his daughter. She was four, maybe four and a half. Her dirty blonde curls were pulled back into pigtails; they bobbed casually around her head as she climbed around the playground. Her eyes sparkled with the excitement of her frolics, and her crimson cheeks showed that she was reserving no energy in her fun.
She was very like her father: quiet, alone amongst the other park-goers, but oblivious to that. They were almost noble. But her father showed a graveness that she lacked. He seemed always intensely concerned with her daughter, as though he feared some tragedy would hurt her or separate them while she played.
Looking at him, you could imagine why he might feel that way. He certainly wasn’t a young man; he could probably pass for her grandfather (although, her filial remarks proved otherwise). There’s something about having a child later in life that creates an unusually strong bond between parent and child, and so much more between father and daughter. But this was more.
Maybe she was that “miracle child” that he and his wife had yearned for from their newly-wed days. Maybe that wife had tragically passed away, but lived on in his daughter’s personality. Maybe he knew these precious childhood days would soon only be a memory, that death or disaster or just growing up would strain the relationship that right now appeared to be his lifeblood.
