My Roald Dahl Baby

There you are, towering above me, taking lumbering steps with the sun streaming at your back. The bowl of your ear craves the tiniest drop from my mouth; the crevasse of a wrinkle gouges through your laughter. You have wisps of hair flying from the top of your head, waving a crazy dance in the hurricane winds. 

The first time you held me in your expanse of crinkly palm I remember your rough brown waistcoat; I could see each weave of thread and wondered how many miles of hazel string were brought together to create a thing so vast. You laughed when I asked you, and offered me a snozzcumber.

Sometimes I wonder how the whole world fails to hear you when you speak. You voice is a booming thing, a ricochet of thunder that bounces around my head and sizzles my brain. I feel it from my tiny toe nails to my slender bone fingers. Often the pebbles at your boat-sized feet skip along the ground as if scurrying away from you, leaving puddles of space in your wake.

One time you lost me. You placed me down and couldn’t find me. You didn’t know it was because I hid from you.

In your search you trampled trees and kicked roofs from houses. You cried fat tears that splashed to the ground and created puddles that flooded the roads. A cacophony of car horns and disgruntled shouts rose from the town, begging me to come forward and show myself, to stop all this destruction.

I wriggled free of the downy quilt and poked my pointed nose out of the window. I saw the damage you caused and felt the tang of rising smoke from the broken house next door burn the back of my throat. The splattered remains of our shared snozzcumber were smeared across the garden. The salty water of your sorrow pooled on the streets.

With a heavy heart, I called your name and reached out my arms as the familiar shadow blocked out the moon and plucked me from my home. You walked me miles away, until we were the only living things in sight.

In the night I held you as close as I could, pressing my tiny body to the crease of your thumb. You told me that you are quite often left instead of right, that you know exactly what words you’re wanting to say, but somehow or other they are always getting squiff-squiddled around.

I looked deep into your twinkling eyes, the kindest eyes I have ever seen. They made me forget every broken brick and every shattered tree. And I quoted up at him, in the tiniest voice I could make, so that his eager ears folded forward to hear me:

This is where all dreams is beginning.

BFG1

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