Lift Me Higher

            My father use to be able to pick me up and lift me high. He cannot lift anything, not even the morose dirt on top of him. My mother died when I was two years of age. I was sent to live with my godmother. I didn’t know much about the woman, just that she and my parents were best of friends.

            “Good Evening” said my godmother to me bitterly. “I am sorry for your loss, please come this way.”

            She led me to a narrow hallway filled with pictures of her relatives. She seemed like a lonely woman. She too had her fill of melancholy events. Her husband along with her two children were in the same graveyard as my parents.

            “Dear, your room is to the right, come to the kitchen when you are done unpacking.”

            “Yes” I said in a polite but cold tone. “Where will I be going to school?”

            “I believe Blueheart Elementary.” she said in a questionable voice. “I am not sure.”

            I had heard of Blueheart before. It was a respected school. Many of my friends came from Blueheart, Maybe some good could come out of this bad.

            I unpacked my clothes that smelled of my home. I unloaded books, pictures, accessories, and more onto the dresser and bed. I came across a picture of my father. It brought tears to my eyes. Its amazing how one lone picture can bring back thousands of memories simultaneously.

            Dinner was unusually dreadful. I tried to stumble upon something to talk about but only this came out.

            “You know we have a lot in common godmother!”

            “How so?” she questioned.

            “We both have a lot of black in our wardrobe, we both look tired and we both a quiet and…” I stopped myself before continuing.

            “You’re right” she said, not even noticing my complete rudeness.

            “I’m not hungry, May I be excused?” I asked.

“Yes” she said

            I walked through the Cherry-wood French doors and down the hallway. I looked to my right and saw the antique style living room.

            “Hi daddy” I sad to the figure looking at me.

            “Hello Anne, I love you” he said with a comely voice.

            I walked down the hallway and laid down on the bed. Realizing what I had done I ran back to the living room.

            “Dad?!” I asked “Where are you?!”

            There was no reply. Nothing but the dusty air coming from the hampered ceiling fan. Tears streamed down my face and I stood baffled, Did I really see him? Why didn’t I hug him? I was so angry with myself.

            I walked in a slump manner to my bedroom and pounded myself against the pillow crying. Thinking I would drown in my own tears I turned over.

            “Hello Papa” I said to him

            “Hello Anne”

            I ran to him like I always did and yelled “lift me!” He grabbed my side and pulled me up.

            “Lift me higher!” I yelled

            He lifted me. I was the happiest 9 year old girl in all the land. Suddenly, he disappeared and I fell onto the ground. I woke up and realized I had been dreaming, I mumbled “Lift me higher” and rolled onto my side.