Crossposted`
Dec. 23rd, 2007 10:57 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
jfs.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
just_writingThis one behind a cut for those of you who read my journal and Just_Writing:
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
He stopped reading for a second.
It was an old house, the sort that you expected to creak and moan in the winter, but he'd lived here long enough to know the normal sounds the place usually made. That wasn't one of them.
She looked up at him from her cot, her blue eyes heavy with sleep, her blonde hair tousled on the pillow. Her thumb stole to her mouth and then, as he looked down at her, guiltily hid itself back under the blankets, her grin making him gratefully complicit.
He smiled then, the noise behind him forgotten. It had been a bad year. Hell; he couldn't remember when he'd had a good month in the last 2 years. But some things made everything better, and the smile of his daughter was one of those things. One of the few things in his life that could lift him out of any gloom.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
There it was again. A creak on the stair, not far from the door of her bedroom. She hadn't heard it, hadn't reacted to the sound. So he suppressed the urge to turn around; stopped himself from standing and going to see what it was behind him. Ever since the car crash, he'd worried about getting her off to sleep; worried about what she remembered, or what she dreamed about. So to see here there, sleepy headed, tonight of all nights? That was the best Christmas present he could have dreamed of.
His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
There was an old floorboard, out on the landing. It had been their joke that it was a burglar trap, many years ago. That he should drip water onto the nails that loosely held it in place to rust them further. "Better than a dog", his wife had said. "Burglers rarely tread on dogs."
There was a screech; low, drawn out and painful, as old nails rubbed against complaining oak might sound. Or the soul of one lost for such a long time.
He couldn't help himself. A sound that he was sure was the door of her bedroom opening, and his head snapped around. It was only for a second. But sometimes a second is all that it takes.
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
He closed the book very quietly, as if he had all the time in the world. And then he leant forward and placed a kiss on the cold, empty pillow.
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
He stopped reading for a second.
It was an old house, the sort that you expected to creak and moan in the winter, but he'd lived here long enough to know the normal sounds the place usually made. That wasn't one of them.
She looked up at him from her cot, her blue eyes heavy with sleep, her blonde hair tousled on the pillow. Her thumb stole to her mouth and then, as he looked down at her, guiltily hid itself back under the blankets, her grin making him gratefully complicit.
He smiled then, the noise behind him forgotten. It had been a bad year. Hell; he couldn't remember when he'd had a good month in the last 2 years. But some things made everything better, and the smile of his daughter was one of those things. One of the few things in his life that could lift him out of any gloom.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
There it was again. A creak on the stair, not far from the door of her bedroom. She hadn't heard it, hadn't reacted to the sound. So he suppressed the urge to turn around; stopped himself from standing and going to see what it was behind him. Ever since the car crash, he'd worried about getting her off to sleep; worried about what she remembered, or what she dreamed about. So to see here there, sleepy headed, tonight of all nights? That was the best Christmas present he could have dreamed of.
His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
There was an old floorboard, out on the landing. It had been their joke that it was a burglar trap, many years ago. That he should drip water onto the nails that loosely held it in place to rust them further. "Better than a dog", his wife had said. "Burglers rarely tread on dogs."
There was a screech; low, drawn out and painful, as old nails rubbed against complaining oak might sound. Or the soul of one lost for such a long time.
He couldn't help himself. A sound that he was sure was the door of her bedroom opening, and his head snapped around. It was only for a second. But sometimes a second is all that it takes.
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
He closed the book very quietly, as if he had all the time in the world. And then he leant forward and placed a kiss on the cold, empty pillow.
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