Amayzine
The father and the hand
How often had he sat like this, there by her bed. Her soft hand in his, watching against evil dreams. Looking under her bed one more time to be sure that there really, really, really was no dragon underneath. Her soft hand had sought his more often. For the first day of school, for that party she had been a bit anxious about, but also during vacations wandering through a mountain village. So it must have been between Mesut Hançer and his daughter Irmak.
And there lies Irmak. Over her mattress a piece of a pink pajama. Or her sheet. Surely lovingly bought by her mother. At her side her father, her hand in his. As it always was. And as it will never be again.
Give to Giro555.
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“At her side her father, her hand in his. As it always was.”.
