She doesn’t stand more than five feet tall.
She’s proud of her height, looks older than she is.
Her hair is blond and curly.
She dreams of it dark and tame.

She raises her head to look
straight into my eyes.
“Who are you?”
She asks with excitement.

“Are you a ballerina?
Are you a zookeeper?
Hair dresser or author?”
“Where are you going?”

“Do you have a bunch of friends
you can tell silly jokes?
Can you put your foot behind your head?”
“Do you know how to laugh and smile?”

I look away, no longer meet her eyes.
Her pestering continues, desperate…
“Tell me about school! And all the books you’ve read!”
“What do you love these days?”

I cannot speak, though tears flow free.
Words clot in my throat, choked.
What can I do to not break her heart?
I am so disappointing.

No, no; no and no.
I have no idea.
No, no, not like before.
…What do I love?

I take her hand, lead her to my room.
Show her plants I’ve nurtured, green and growing.
“Wow! You must be proud!
I kill every plant I own.”

I reach far up to grab a basket
crocheted from t-shirts, holding knitted hats.
“That’s a little weird, and cool!
I’m not very patient, I could never.”

She seems happy now, and so am I.
I am still quiet, and cannot answer all her questions.
But I am not an imposter to her.
Only a not-so-grown-up woman,
Still weird and cool and proud.
Still happy.