“Look at me, Look at me.” She lovingly insists.
“Breath, breath. In and out.” Her breath encourages his own.
He looks up, away up away, toes flick fingers twitch, I watch him as the memories, the horror, and the insecurities tug on his soul, pull him away.
She is patient, but where is her pain? How does this not make her feel worse, sink into her own vortex? I watch love and strength in action.
The next night she walks in with a twisted ankle. The pain is excruciating.
She sobs, it is just too much. She had just replaced her running shoes that were lost in the fire. She was going to take control of her life with running and then there was this.
“Look at me.” He insists kneeling before her face in a similar position as she was in front of him just the night before. “ The pain is exacerbated by the trauma. I got you; you got this. You are strong.” This time I’m in their bed scratching my daughter’s back, stroking her hair as I did when she was little. He in front of her, me behind her we have her cradled in love.
We are growing stronger than fire every day.
I’m so glad they are here in my home where I can help.
Breathing in and breathing out
Pusche