L.D.B.

The little girl had a smile that made the scarlets and golds and purples of the setting sun look about as impressive as a dull crayoned-out drawing from the dusty interior of a forgotten trunk, yellowed around the edges. Her eyes shimmered with every excited word she spoke, and although she was only about three feet tall, her personality could reach the moon.

She’d let herself into the bedroom early in the morning, as the rest of the house was sleeping, and tiptoe up to the bed. Her hair would be in crazy curly-Q’s that framed her face, and if you pressed your nose against the soft locks, you’d still be able to smell her baby sweetness, something that, unlike highchairs and bottles and diapers and teething rings, she had not yet lost from infancy. You couldn’t use the word “baby” around her, though, or she would furrow her brow indignantly and insist she was a big girl. Big enough to brush her own teeth and count to ten and sing the alphabet while riding in the backseat of the car, kicking her little feet into the plush back of the seat her mother sat in.

She’d come right up close to the bed, and lean in to your face, and whisper, “Are you sleeping?” Her breath would smell of sleep. You’d open your eyes, and she would smile.

Then you’d be on a journey, to the doctor’s, or to go get coffee. The bed became the car, and the little girl was the doctor, pilot, driver, and conductor of every game. During your routine checkups, she would examine you, and somehow always diagnose you with a shot and a bandaid. She was an expert at shots and bandaids, and wanted to be a doctor when she grew up. Sometimes you would be required to drive to the various errands, and she’d give you the directions. “Left. Left. Right. Left. Right.” Sometimes you’d get arrested by the police for driving without a license. Police, in the little girl’s opinion, were bad and scary.

“No, no,” you’d say, slightly disturbed by this. “Police are good. They get rid of the bad guys.”

Still, when she impersonated a policeman, she would adopt a deep, menacing voice and cross her arms a lot. And when she insisted that you arrest her, she would pretend to cry.

Her idea of safety was to run to you when her family started yelling. You weren’t related to her, but maybe that’s why you were safe: neutral territory. You’d bring her to the bedroom and close the door and turn on the TV, and distract her as best you could. She’d sit on your lap, slumping against you, her sleepiness becoming an anchor, her gentle breaths and the way her hand rested on top of yours as soothing as a mug of tea during a blizzard. She could be a monster, throwing fits and crying and carrying on, but you’d just have to remember her in this moment, and you’d forgive her and love her completely.

She cried when you left, certain that you came over every weekend to see her and her alone. And maybe you did. She ran to you, arms flung wide, wrapping them around your neck as you picked her up. You always picked her up. Even when she was getting bigger every day, all you did was vow to get stronger.

She loved going places. You were her copilot, and you’d sit beside her in the car, and play the I Love You game.

“I wuv you,” she would say.

“I love you,” you would answer.

“I wuv you.”

“I love you.”

Everywhere she went, she’d hope to see a puppy, or a merry-go-round, or a really fun toy to play with. She understood about money and hated when Mama didn’t have any, because, after all, the lack of money could be solved simply by reaching into a purse. She could sing along to any of her favorite tunes, mostly including Fall Out Boy and Dora the Explorer. If she didn’t know the song, she’d make you sing, because you were big and knew every song there ever was. She told stories about caterpillars and swingsets and swimming in big lakes, and playing outside was her favorite, but she hated the scary hose. Her mother could shush her all she wanted, but if you shushed her, she’d cry. She’d reach for your hand, and it was tiny in yours, but you never wanted to let go. You hand-fed her barbecue chips while the others watched a movie. The only catch was if her mouth was closed it meant it was a red light, so you had to wait till it opened and the light was green. She used to eat anything that was offered to her, as long as you called it “ketchup.” Now she’d eat pickles and chicken and ice cream, but nothing sour. She presented you with drawings and hair scrunchies and various other presents you’d cherish forever, and she’d open a notebook and have you write her name over and over and over again. naya.

You haven’t seen her for two years now, and you’re sure she’s completely lost that baby innocence you remember. You’re sure she’s changed and grown. You’re sure she looks different now, and maybe if you saw her in a crowd, you wouldn’t recognize her. She certainly wouldn’t recognize you. And if you’d known, the last time you saw her, that it was the last time you’d see her, you would have done something—anything—differently. You would have looked her in the face, your favorite home fry, the little girl who wuved you, and you would have begged her to remember you. But as the days pass, as they turn into months, and the months into years, you’ll think back to all the times she’d break down and cry as you left, pounding on the window as you got into your car, carrying all the signs of a baby girl who’s been betrayed. You will be glad she can’t remember you and think that maybe you chose to stay away. You’ll be glad she doesn’t miss you like you miss her. You’ll wish for all the best things for her, although you’ll never be certain if she gets the best, you’ll never know if she’s truly okay. You’ll never pat her head to reassure her, or let her win every race, or protect her from barking dogs and loud noises and scary monsters in the closet. But as much as it hurts, you’ll never forget her, and that’s the most important thing. The only important thing.