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"Could you read me the story again?" Allie asked, wrapping my rather large jacket around her small frame.
I grabbed the can of boiling tomato soup away from the small portable gas stove, dropping a spoon into it, and waiting for it to cool.
"Al, you've heard it a billion times now." I sighed, turning to her.
She wore a smile. "So what?"
"So, you can read it yourself if you like it that much."
She frowned, her eyes looking brightly upwards to mine. "I like it better when you read it."
I felt myself collapse under the pressure, reaching to grab the thin children's book from our small array of items, named "Cry, Heart, But Never Break."
"Fine," I smiled. "I'm not reading it again, after this." I finished, knowing the book would most likely be in my hands again tomorrow.
It was one of the only things that constantly distracted her from tears anymore, or asking questions I never knew the answer to. I handed her the can of soup, opening up the book to the front, where a small quote read;
"Each day, we wake slightly altered, and the person we were yesterday is dead, so why be afraid of death, when death comes all the time?" -Glenn Ringtved.
It was truly a morbid kind of child's book, on the topic of accepting death, discretely masked with beautiful pictures. It was the reason Allie enjoyed this novel so much, not paying attention to the true meaning, only the pretty words, and rhyming poems the author had written.
She had always liked using big words, sometimes ones she could barely fit in her mouth, pronouncing them horribly wrong even while a dictionary laid in her hands.
As I read on, the soup slowly disappeared from the cup, and not long after, her eyes had grown heavy at my words, falling asleep at last.
