Story Time

“Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky…”

“Daddy!”

Stuart was a tired man with a long day behind him and a longer week ahead of him. But he loved his daughter very much, and he did want to tell her another story about their lives. At that time of the year, the first of the weirdness with their weather would hit them soon, and the town would prepare for the tourists and fairs and carnivals. All the villagers looked forward to it. Her daughter, excited when she saw the calendar flit past the end of the month, ran up to him as he passed through their vestibule, knocking over the umbrella stand and leaping up into his arms. There was no escape for a man who organized those events, especially after looking into those beautiful brown eyes.

“Dearest Esmerelda…”

“Will I be allowed to take part in everything this year?”

The little girl knew the answer but did not care, shifting in her blankets and squeezing her stuffed unicorn as her father set her in bed and let her adjust her pillows. The story he had told her for the last eleven years never changed; the weather was a permanent part of their lives. The little girl was not little enough to lie to about this.

“You must take part in the event this year. You are soon to be the right age.”

“I will be twelve soon.”

She believed everything that her father told her. She had also believed everything that her late mother had told her, or at least what she could remember of her presence. Mona was a woman Stuart never thought he would possible win from among all the other villagers who longed and lusted for her. And to be fair, she chose him; clearly, it was all her choice as she took his hand at the swearing-off ceremony and vowed to be with him, “entwined from now to the end, skin to skin, soul to soul, love to love”. There were tears on both sides of their families, perhaps from both disappointment and joy, but Stuart knew the words he had to repeat with her. He knew that her family was made up of the main elders of their community. She knew that she was wanted and desired by most of those men. There were so many questions about that moment he never had the chance to broach. Mona gave him a life that made him proud, a job that allowed him to hold his head up among the old bullies and thugs of his youth, and a daughter that still made him sparkle and imagine and hope.

“Yes, twelve years…”

Imagine and hope…

His daughter was ethereal, sweet, and oh, so, so trusting. Her father wondered if there was more of her mother in her than any part of him he could imagine. Mona had loved the arts, the books of the local town lender, the festivals where they danced all night until they collapsed and could not feel their legs, arms and thighs (a very good way of breaking the ice was to offer a massage to the ones that you wanted to speak to and reach...and touch), and she had also loved this special event. That twelfth year…

What did Esmerelda know about this?

What rumours did she hear in town about such moments?

She had asked if she would be allowed to take part this year. Male children were always forbidden from entering the circle once the canvas was drawn over that ring, but he remembered what he saw when he crawled under it in a dark corner and wondered what was happening to his female friends (all at the same age; all at the age of twelve that one year; all prepared for). And now, here he was. A father that wanted to make sure that he protected his daughter and loved her the way any young girl needed to be loved. Mona never talked about her time in that ring and he never asked. Would Esmerelda be that quiet about it?

Would Stuart forgive himself if he stayed quiet about it?

“Daddy, you did not finish your story.”

She hugged the unicorn to her chest as she leaned forward and kissed her father, letting the natural odor of his cologne and her lipstick mingle in the air in a sweaty dance.

Okay.

“And when the sun turned everything blue, the purple clouds slept peacefully, ready for another day to begin…”

*

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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