She followed her mother on the elevator. A pale and fine boned woman whose two children showed no trace on her figure. She wore a bracelet with those tiny white cube baby bead letters and a thin brown leather strap. The sister had come in first, a carbon copy of her pale and beautiful mother. The little girl looked up, auburn curls framing her cherubic face. Her long dark lashes framing her seeking eyes. It is January, but she is dressed in a ballerina costume of purple tulle, pink satin, and sheer plum purple butterfly wings that are nearly at broad as she is tall. Her little satin slippers, decorated with jewels, shuffle into the elevator, barely touching hardwood floor between bounces. She reminds me about the wonderful thing about Tiggers.
I smiled at her - thinking of my own beatiful little girl bouncing and smiling at strangers.
I said: You are about to make someone very happy, I bet.
She beamed up at me and between the bouncing told me: My daddy's in pain, but I'm going to go fix it!
O little one, that it were so easy.
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