The Cedarville Review 2020

18 | THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW Peeking through my window blind fingers, shaking, arctic licorice drains out of my too-tight veins, somehow Dad holds my gaze— standing with pride, smiling. Skipping between bleeding fudge stripe cracks, careless, cotton colored cirrus lies wisp around my tongue, disregarding the one risking to save. Sitting on my father's bouncing lap, content, morning blanket shoulders for me to rest my head, rereading the story from my favorite author.