sketching the character.

first of all - this is not the real girl. and secondly, my character sketch needs help so if you've got some time on your hands go ahead and copy what i have, print it out, edit it, and give it back to me. it would be much appriciated. not to mention i have yet to finish the end.

My darling Amelie bent down to pluck a yellow daffodil which she added to the small bouquet held in her other hand. Her white dress patterned by pink and green flowers ruffled in the gentle breeze of warm summer air, and I called her name through the open window that funneled the sweet smell of freshly mowed grass into the house. Amelie turned her small, pale face towards me, inquisitively bearing her accenting intense chocolate almond eyes into my own. I smiled as she held up the glorious bouquet to her pleasant face. After a moment she returned to her barefoot business in the lush green grass. I observed my daughter, a creature of mystery to everyone but myself. People asked frequently about her coyness, but “Amelie,” I told them, “isn’t like others”. Five years old and she’d already developed a multi-faced personality; she rambled about everyday things one moment and grew silent in an analysis of something that caught her attention, things that her contemporaries overlooked. Her quiet nature, mistakenly characterized as fear or timidity, was merely a hushed and reclusive easiness in which her imagination, constantly yearning for something new to satisfy its wonder, was free to fly. The wheels of my young explorer’s pensive and curious mind never ceased their turning.
Left of the window, where Amelie had wandered, floated her faint voice, naturally soft like the beating wings of a hummingbird. My ears had been trained to detect this nearly silent sound. “Mama,” she called, “will you come push me?” I heard the creaking of the swing set and moseyed outside. My round-faced five year, poised on the swing with a purposeful posture, watched me with patient anticipation as I approached and pressed my fingers into the softness of her back in a push. Her two-toned blonde hair, paired with wispy bangs, fell choppily directly under her small ears and bobbed with swaying of the swing. As she rocked higher and higher, grace radiated from the powerful movements of her pumping legs dimpled with traces of baby fat. Her arms extended gently like a dancer’s and showed hints of muscle. The tiny padded hands loosely gripped the swing’s clinking chains.

And it was during these moments when I was reminded of the beauty of a child.