Cold Hands

 

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Cold Hands

      My fingertips were compressed against the wooden windowsill, which gave off a faint white glow in the dark area of my house. My long nails barely touch the glass of the musty window, currently covered in damp, small drops of water and the moist clouds of my breath, covering my view from outside. Although, it from the blurry point of view of mine, I could easily see the bright yellow winter jacket and blood red rain boots of my daughter. She had her arms stretched wide out in a welcoming stance, twirling around in circles while playfully hopping in the small puddles found in our driveway. The concrete on the ground was slowly being pushed by the small streams of water joining near the edge of our garage. Small rolls of thunder began groaning off in a distance, softly quaking the sky.

I inhaled the dust particles floating around me. Despite the cold atmosphere, her enjoyment and optimism filled me with warmth. I let my head hang down and gazed at the rusty air conditioner that never works. Then again, nothing in this home has ever functioned. It's bothered me, but not her. She spends every moment of her time outdoors, except when she returns for bed. Every time I made a small salad for lunch, I would bring it outside to her, as she refused to eat it indoors. I don't make anything for myself, except eat a few disgusting granola bars when I wake up in the morning. Not that it's expired or moldy, it just has raspberries in it. I wish it had anything but raspberries.

Every morning, she either puts on her beautiful pink sweater with a printed fabric flower, or a bright blue T-shirt with a pink heart. I both bought them for her third birthday. I only have one outfit; a shaggy navy shirt which was extremely itchy, along with worn down jeans which were too big, so they sagged down below my waist revealing the top of my boxers. It was embarrassing, but she loves the look. She once embraced me when she came inside one night for bed and said, "Daddy's so handsome!" while giggling. I lifted her into my arms and said, "Sweetie's so pretty," and her bright cheeks blushed red.

I sat on the air conditioner, my back pressed up on the window pane. There were only three main rooms in our home: the kitchen, where I would make her her meals, the bedroom, where both of us sleep, and the garage, where I keep my rusty jeep that's always low on gas. The paint on the walls was beginning to peel off and crumble on the floor, and the grass outside was a sad, brown color. We live in the middle of nowhere and I can't afford her education, so she doesn't know anyone besides me. She thinks it's a perfect house. "It's beautiful!" she would say.

I pushed myself to my feet and dragged myself over to the front door; I used all I could to push it open. Drops of rain hanging from the roof splattered down on my face, rolling down to my scraggly beard that I could never tame. She was gazing up at the sky, trying to catch raindrops with her tongue. She noticed me standing by her and ran up to practically tackle me with a hug. "Daddy's here!"

I bent down and wrapped my arms around here. "Daddy will always be here."

She gripped by hands when she stopped her embrace. "Daddy's hands are so cold!"

I chuckled. "They've always been cold, sweetie."

Another trail of thunder rolled near us, getting louder.

She looked up at me. "Is it storming?"

"It's going to soon." I paused and hesitated. "Why don't we go to bed, sweetie? It's getting late."

Her smile faded slightly. "Oh… okay."

"C'mon." I smiled and grabbed her hand. It was freezing, yet warm. She smiled with a big grin, and we both went inside.

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Sam DeKemper

will the real Sam DeKemper please stand up

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