Sarah Brett

A Letter to My Son

A Letter to My Son “Like this!” She whispered, her small fingers fluttering in front of a flashlight. Her shadows danced on the wall, soaring and swooping. Her hair, tiny strands of yellow and gold, caught the light. Smiling, she joined her father in a haphazardly constructed tent made of chairs, pillows, and sheets that had been thrown together in the living room of her late grandfather’s house. “It was a bird,” She said, matter-of-factly, and laid beside her father with heavy eyes. She always fought sleep, afraid to miss out on something exciting. He loved that about her, as she was always so ready for life.