She tried, how she tried, to
explain to her Daddy how
she had grounded the car
up to its axil(eas) in four
tornado holes.  Tears

clouded her sky; rain leaked
from the corners of her eyes,
obscuring her vision.  She
knew -- she knew -- he'd be
disappointed, and that's

what hurt the most.  It would
do no good to lie; he could
sniff out a lie, a falsehoo(l)d
faster than anyone should.

Her tears flooded over her
cheeks and down her dress;
she cried so hard, words
were lost in the gasp of the
wind.  She was miserable.

"I didn't mean it, Daddy," was
all she could say before she
dissolved under the heaviness
of his glare.  He sighed and
sucked her into the safety of his

arms.  He rumbled comfort into
her ear:  "No harm done.  You
are like me:  stubborn.  Whoo!
Don't cry.  When this is all through,

what memories we'll have."  He
called the to(e) truck to pull the
car out of the miry muck and
afterward, went out for ice cream
(green, of course), because all

Ogres like sweets now and then
(despite the stories you've heard).
How he'd give her chores to do
and how she screwed up every
time:  didn't lessen his love for her.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman (6/4)