My Little Golden Bell (For Cookie)

What was once silver, turned brown somehow, sometime back long ago, amber, blonde, platinum with streaks, pieces of white, then turned purple if you looked close enough, sometimes silky black, then chestnut brown, depending on the light. Looks perfect with the curl, wavy elegance, I think, long, lacy sleeves on that blouse you wear, floral skirt, and I always think, Lady—with a capital L. Do you see what I see?

Fair, like alabaster, white marble, the milk you drink so much, only smoother, with a pink blush, something you probably have to touch to believe, make real. Know what I mean? Probably not. Makes me wish I could touch it freely, run my finger down the length of your pretty white cheek and tell you, “This is only one of the things that makes you beautiful to me, that stirs my blood.” The rest…well…I’ll try to get there eventually. This is just the beginning.

Sometimes, too, like a porcelain doll, healthy and flawless, skin that can’t be real and you wonder how such a pretty girl had that miasma of personality that shot through the roof. Gonna meet a superstar someday, make the devil blush. What a lucky bastard someone’s gonna be. Brings a tear to my eyes, sometimes more than one. It often does.

Don’t be afraid to cry. I see sometimes the hurt you go through (It’s hard not to with those puffy red eyes.), knowing there’s nothing I can do, but let you let it run its course. No hug will do, not for this girl. She needs something more, a magic word, fairy dust, to make her feel better, a carpet ride or something. Did I tell you you look like a princess today?

I wish I could be younger sometimes with a chance out there, or you could be a little bit older, and we could run, and laugh, hold hands, and play like two little kids always getting into mischief. Turn the kitchen into a den of flour from floor to ceiling. You got it all over your face. Smear the chocolate syrup in your hair and think about the beating our parents are going to give us for what we did to the kitchen and not care at all. Open every single cookie jar. For some reason, there are a million, make sure that loud laughter of yours continues to ring and ring and ring. Change your name and call you My Little Golden Bell, tinkle like a snow chime, watch the lights at Christmas time, open up a jar of honey and say, “I made this special for you with all the bees’ cooperation. You should have seen the looks on their faces. Bees smile. Bet you never knew that, did you?” Take you back to a land of lost chivalry, let you ride upon a handsome steed, because I always have to throw in some romantic fantasy to make it complete. All the townsfolk are throwing flowers at you. See, the blush in your cheeks.

Carry you up to your tower at night, put you to sleep, and stand guard by the window, watching the stars come out, making sure all is safe, no monsters, no dragons, no villainous creeps, nothing to harm you, watching you sleep, peaceful little princess girl with all that drool on your pillow just makes you look that much prettier to me.