Recently, out of the clear blue, I thought to myself how very lucky I am. While I’m creeping further from “young” and closer to “middle age,” and while I’m aware of the sticky hands of mundane and practical things, I am a traveler in time, ceaselessly visiting my most magical moments again and again.
And this must be why God gives women daughters.
Favorite books that occupied my elementary years are growing tattered in my daughter’s hands, while the characters, lovely friends of my youth, are making her acquaintance after slumbering for decades on book shelves and memories. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, they are alive again, brought back from the brink by her love and attention.
There are spunky fairies with pink hair and blue jeans, pioneers with their long dresses and aprons, faithful native friends who make bird calls outside our windows at night. There are horses, and housekeepers, mysterious neighbors and friendly bears. A wild family tree from my own youthful psyche.
My beloved stuffed cheetah, shelved after I came of age, is now pampered and cuddled and traveling once again, the companion of a child who treats her like an aged queen – her importance to me lending her a regal distinction in my daughter’s eyes.
As she skips through the meadows and the mountains of her daydreams, Addison journeys into my own and brings me along with her. How I’ve missed these magical places and familiar faces, and how lucky I am to see them again.