Rita

Long ago, father gave Rita Crawford the spark of life.

On cold winter mornings he woke her with a warm crackling fireplace and the sweet smell of bacon.

On hot summer days, he brought her cold glasses of water.  

Every night he sat in his arm chair and held her while she drifted to sleep.  

Most nights Rita and her father would dance.  

Across their living room rug they twirled close together and laughed as one being.  Her small feet balanced atop his massive brown shoes.  Her chubby hands wrapped around his one finger. 

Then, one day, she was gone. 

She walked into the woods in the bright sunshine and never came back.

Rita had found a small door on the face of a tree trunk.  Creaking it open, a glint of sunlight caught the edge of a mountain of toys that seemed to stretch endlessly down into the earth.  And although it was dark down there, she stayed. 

On cold winter mornings her father cried. 

On hot summer days he sobbed.

Every night her father lamented over the loss of his little child.

Then one day, father glimpsed a familiar hand pushing through the folliage at the edge of the woods.  

Rita was back!

A pale, fragile girl emerged, and her father darted towards her at the edge of the wood, scooping her into his arms once again.