Assisting an Author

This was a sensational Saturday when I was driving back like a maniac, home to my daughter to ensure her safety. We were hit by an earthquake. It was a quality quake, arising fear and anxiety. And some hours after the weather was pleasant we walked the evening, had ice-creams. She was beside me with her nonchalance about whatever happened, when she asked, "Can I write on compewturr today?"

I opened a new word document, and more than willingly put the laptop on her lap which could hardly hold the Sony and watched her as her tiny little fingers popped out of her full sleeved night suit and as the light of the monitor glowed on her face, she typed out:

iuuuganb tyqwer ,jadgibxfl 

\=12xmfb lef jsHFEFUY kjdHG

HADGuqy hjggeflkhwceqweqerer

782809junsgsrwREWRJK23543

/.,/.,JKHAJHJHFGHSDGFhbjgjg

lolipop

"I will write what happened next tomorrow." Yes Ma'am. Please. Whatever you say. I am glad I am alive today to be around you and when you win the Nobel Prize for something, I will, in my warm apartment, smile at the TV monitor declaring it. After all, I assisted you in your formative years, formed of such Saturdays.

And now, as you hug me so tight with your soft little arms and your fingers clutch mine, and your legs weightlessly wrap around me, I am blanketed in this extreme comfort of being. Carefully, I turn the overhead light off, turn your side, peck you endlessly and one on your chin that lingers a little longer and go to sleep, not very afraid of the quake earlier in the day. Like in my childhood I was, of its aftereffects.

When I cannot sleep twenty minutes later, I access my mail from my phone, in which I have saved your first story as a draft, and read it. You are my favourite author and I love your stories. Tomorrow is a Sunday, and I must tell you the greatest story of your life -- of how you were loved before you were born -- and what happened next.

Assist me.