Tongue Twisted

She was sullen all morning. Argumentative.

"She's been away for three days. Let her be," I told myself as I steered clear and tried to avoid a fight. She was clearly in the mood for a fight.

Funny, though, that when she is in this type of mood, she wants to be near me. Like a dog nipping at my ankles, waiting for me to kick.

I got into the shower, turned on the water and faced my back toward her as she slunk in the doorway.

"Do you believe that there is a Santa Claus?", she asked, barely audible above the noise of the shower.

"What? Do I believe in Santa? Sure. . .but, what did you hear? Do you want to talk?"

"No. . .nothing. Forget it."

"No wait, I just need to rinse my head. I'll be right out!"

She walked away.

A minute later, dripping in a towel, I sat and talked to her but the moment was gone. She says she will stay up Christmas Eve until she sees him. If he doesn't appear, she's decided it is actually mom or dad.

I nodded, trying to clear my hungover, tired head to say something of importance, of meaning.

"I started thinking the same thing at your age", was all I mustered.

She sighed, smiled, and slowly became my little girl again.

Seven years old and another step forward.

For me, perhaps another step back. I think in words all the time. Why do they fail me at times like this?