Tell Me About Her

chapter one.

His index and middle finger grip the thin page of the bible as he reads the scriptures to himself in a hushed voice. He tried to stay quiet as his daughter watched the television intently in front of him, but it didn't matter if she heard it either way. He didn't believe the words himself. He only felt a false comfort in them. The thought of an after life where Elizabeth lived so comfortably was the only thing that kept him sane these days-well, that- and his daughter, Josephine.

Ironically, though, they were about to drive Harry insane. He let out a huff and closed the tattered book  and sat it beside him as he pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back onto the couch. He was frustrated. Not only with the lies he tried to convince himself of, but his inability to open up about the death of his wife after all of this time. It ate away at him. He couldn't even talk to his daughter about it without going into a fit of rage and shutting her out for the rest of the day. But the frustration with his frustration seemed to show- Josephine had taken notice.

She laid on the ground, her right achilles resting atop her left knee, and her hair sprawled on the rug, she peered back at him. Jo's eyebrows were raised and eyes wide, curious as to what he was upset about today. But she already somewhat knew.

Harry only stared forward at the t.v., arms crossed and brows pushing towards one another. They both knew he would give in and look down at her. And he did just that.

"What?" He questioned her curiosity in a stern tone.

"I could ask you the same," Jo's voice was strained from the stretching of her neck ti be able to look back at her father. They stared at one another for a but, before one side of his lip curled into a smile and he could no longer keep the cold façade.

He stared at her as she broke out into a smile too. She looked so much like her. She took her dark eyes and cherry red lips, along with the freckles she despised but he loved so dearly. She even adopted her mannerisms and ways of moving. Jo even rested like Elizabeth would have on that carpet.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Your mother," he could no longer look at her, instead he focused his gaze on his interlocker hands and twiddling thumbs. Jo was long flipped onto her stomach and propped up on her elbows.

"Dad, this is no time for jokes," she said slyly. He actually let out a laugh, it was subtle and quick, but it was there.

"'No, your mother, your amazing mother," his breathing was recovering from the small giggle, and his smile was returning to his resting mouth.

"What about her?" she questions, treading lightly as she knew it was a hard subject for her father.

"Everything."

"Tell me about her."

"What about her?"

"Anything," she was know sitting on her knees, peering up at her father with concerned eyes.

"How we met?" he smiled to himself at the thought of their beginning. Jo smiled at the thought of their puppy love, a love she was never able to witness.

She had heard the story a million times, in bits and pieces, and in small allusions from her mother when she was alive. Parts of the story were laughed about in car rides on the way home from various places, or before bed when her mother kissed her goodnight. But she had never heard the story from her father.

"Sure. Yes."