“Your Papa and I wanted you so much that we wished and wished and wished on a star for you,” Dad used to say, lifting her higher and higher and higher into the air. “And then one night that star came zoooooooooming down to Earth and crashed into the back yard,” he’d continue, zooming her all around the living room before crashing them both onto the sofa. “And you’ve been our little star ever since.”
The story of how she came into the world has evolved significantly over the years, but that first, uncomplicated version will likely always be her favorite.
When she thinks of being very little, she always thinks of herself cocooned between Papa and Dad on the sofa in the living room. She can still feel the flannel of Papa’s pajamas, smell the lingering scent of Dad’s cologne, sense the rush of adrenaline that would shoot through her veins when the television screen would light up and the overture of another movie musical would begin.
She thinks of herself being bundled into winter clothes. Dad’s hands doing up the buttons on her yellow coat; Papa holding out her white and pink striped mittens for her to slip her hands into.
She thinks of herself as warm and safe and secure.
She never thinks of herself as missing something, as motherless. At least she knows she never felt that way about herself back then.