I told Phoebe that we were going to the beach, but she insisted on wearing the faerie costume. I spell it that way because she insists on it. She can barely spell her own name, but she can spell faerie, “The right way, mommy.”

I remember the days that we spent at the beach, her flapping her arms like wings and jumping from rock to rock. I remember how her hair unfurled in the breeze and she squinted into the sunlight, pursing her lips as she dug for buried treasure. She was my treasure, the only one I ever wanted.

I would scoop her into my arms and swing her around, ignoring the scattering seashells. She would dance along the beach under the clear blue sky, unaware of time marching on. I used to hold her hands and dance with her, but that was a long time ago.

Her smile lit up my life, her songs about kitties and faeries made my days just a little more tolerable. She was my one my only. When it was my time, she was older. My Phoebe, the little girl with sun in her eyes, love in her heart.

My sweet faerie.