Fix You

She blew on the glass that seperates her from the passing trees and grey highways. Her breathe fogged the clear sheet in the biting Febuary chill. She drew a new face on her condensation, this time with crinkled eyes, just like her grandpa when he laughs. She missed her grandpa, him with his old tweed coat and cigar smoke. They hugged their goodbyes this morning before her mom hustled her in the car, about six hours ago. She wasn't sure why but he hugged her tighter and longer than usual, and there was a sheen in his eyes she didn't like.

She shifted uncomfortably on her seat, the leather seatbelt cutting painfully into her shoulders.