Our girl was a preemie,
a twin bereft of her sister
before their life outside of me
could even begin.

She was tiny, an elfin child,
with delicate features,
large eyes, and thin limbs,
seeming to exist between worlds.

She spoke of strange things
no one else could see,
imaginary friends populating
each corner of her fertile mind.

Most memorable to me
was the creature that inhabited
our Christmas poinsettia plant
one December; Buggy was his name.

Buggy had many tiny friends
that held elaborate parties
among the red and opulent leaves
every night as we slept.

It was only as I quietly discarded
the strangely sickly plant one night
that I discovered the truth our spritely
three year old had tried so hard to convey:
an infestation of spider-like mites
danced under and climbed over its leaves.