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Touched by the Fire
The angel kissed the little child’s forehead before whispering a soft prayer of sweet dreams to chase off the things that go bump in the night. The little boy, only four, with sun burnt cheeks from too many hours in the hot, summer sun without taking heed to his mothers words to wear a hat. You seem to know everything at four, and yet, nothing at the same time. Those charming red ringlets of hair nestled so sweetly and tenderly trapped between his cheek and cowboy inspired pillow. Soft eyelashes rested easily, the scraped knee from tripping over the rocks at the brook forgotten as peaceful sleep prevailed.
Why the angel lingered, he did not know, but the boy seemed to rest very easily, unlike other boys his age who were restless in their sleep, tossing and turning with pent-up energy waiting to be burnt in the next, hot humid summer day. Ever since his birth, the angel had arrived every night when he was put to bed. From diapers, to the diapers he wore now to keep himself from wetting the bed and ruining the mattress and sheets, he watched him evolve. From the night of his first nightmare, he wept for him as he did for his mother, reaching out in the darkness until the flame of a candle appeared in the door, and his mother, dressed in a soft, gauzy nightgown came to sooth his worries. He wept, for he had failed to protect this small blessing.
A blessing, a child is, with a face carved of porcelain, tender, soft, and wonderful to gaze upon when they sleep, because they don’t dream about the things adults dream of. Purely innocent until school begins, and the traumas inflicted in the unprotected world can be too much, even for the angels softest voiced prayer. The hardships this little boy will endure, especially one so gentle, and quiet, a bully’s prime target. How much this angel wanted life to be perfect for all his children he kissed goodnight, and prayed for, but he knew that someday, his prayers would be overthrown by the corruption this child will experience. And even then, the flame of his mother will never touch the darkness surrounding the small red haired boy. No one can save someone from corruption.
Sadly, the angel stole one more loving glance at the boys face, illuminated by a soft, orange light from a night light not far from the bed before leaving the room. He was counting down the days before this tiny gift will lose his innocence, and never be touched by the fire of safety and comfort again.
***Inspired by the poem on Toni S' author page.***
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