The Father

He built her a room of foxgloves, this father of hers. he built it around her as she lay and cry, his way of comforting her. He grew her favorite flower, rose them up from the earth around her, her tears watering them. Soon, they were towering over the girl, protecting her heaving body. The foxgloves grew up in stripes of bursting fuchsia, snowy white and regal purple. As the cheeks became wet and rosy, her breathing short and rough, her father looked upon her, his own eyes filling with tears. His hearth broke for her, he simply wished to heal her. He lay a think purple blanket over her, a blanket of healing, to give her strength. The father watched her all night, as she slept through the tears, keeping her safe, making sure that she knew he was never alone. He stayed at her side all night, watching over her in that little room of flora. He stayed with her until the sun rose up, and he could tell just by looking at her that she was healed and no longer afraid, and he left, knowing that she would push on, her strength renewed.