It's The Little Things

The morning is beautiful and clear and cool and we're just about to the marsh area of our ride. Geese and ducks were high overhead in a hard pull toward the river. I hate to admit it but I was half asleep, hard night, too many trips in the middle of the night. Old age don't 'ya know.

In my sleepy state of mind I could hear Little Bit hum. Now and then she'd break into song; her little voice sweet. I smiled.

"What song is that, Sweetheart?"

Her, "Don't know, Papa. I just made it up. Dreamed it."

We rode a couple more miles, her at full throttle, one song after another.

Then, "Papa."

"What, Honey."

"Sing with me." She breaks into her rendition of 'Silent Night,' even if Christmas is in the past. She hits it word for word. I'm impressed.

Me, "Honey, Papa can't sing."

"Try." This isn't a request. I tried. Failed. Let's face it, real men don't sing nor dance. It isn't dignified and I don't care what you say on the subject.

"Papa, listen to me. Put your tongue like this." She gives an example. "Then try it again."

I tried, again. Frogs sing better than me. She looks over at me and shakes her head; a cute wispy little girl with a confused expression on her face. The girl with the ability to melt my heart.

She reaches over and takes my hand, "Papa."

"What, Sweetheart."

"Papa, I love you."

"I love you too, Honey."

She continues, "But Papa, you can't sing worth a flip." She gives me a sweet look, squeezes my hand.

"Papa, it's okay, it isn't your fault, you must have been dropped on your head when you were a baby."

Sigh. I guess so....

Stephen