Daddy There was once a time when I called my father “Daddy”, I used to run to his arms and he would spin me in circles, my feet suspended far above the ground until he would complain about his back and set me down. When I was six my father was my go to man for story time, he would sit on the edge of my bed and read me stories of far off lands, by the time I had turned seven I had sailed the sea in paper boats, traveled to Middle Earth, and spent my first year at Hogwarts. My fathers voice was magical in the way that it could both shake the sleep from my bones just as easily as it could do the sandman’s work.
This is a wonderful story, dear. I usually avoid commenting as personal as this because there might be things we as outsiders never know but I think this story would affect anyone some way or another. Please take this critique from a story point of view, not as a judgement of any personal experience.
Okay, first of all, breaking it down:
There is quite some repetition in places but overall, this is a well worded and touching piece. The descriptions are really detailed and imagery is really strong.