The Little Princess

I met Princess Sydney when she was not yet four. I have always read it as a compliment that children and dogs sniff me out even in a crowded space and place themselves in close proximity with my body. Being rather average in the department of appearance and not being particularly child and beast friendly, I have never quite understood the chemistry but must confess it has been among the reassuring experiences of my life. My acquaintance with Sydney was one such.

I was too preoccupied with the mass of elders at the gathering to realize that on her first and only encounter with me the child had taken herself to a corner in order to be able to examine me intently and undisturbed from a distance. Once she convinced herself that I was fully human she sidled up to me and started first to caress the glass bangles on my wrist and then to finger the red velvet dot on my forehead before proceeding wordlessly to all the visible colourful accessories of fabric, glass and metal that my person carried. I saw no reason to not submit to her scrutiny especially as it gave me good reason to not participate in the ongoing adult conversation about the glories of the biggest and boldest democracy. Having conducted the exercise to her satisfaction the girl ran to where her mother was organizing food for the guests and drawing her down whispered something in her ears. I saw the mother nod at which the child returned to me with greater confidence and announced, “Mom says it is ok to ask if you are a princess. I think you are.” Although it was not quite a question I could see she expected a response so I replied as promptly as my middle aged surprise would allow, “Of course sweetheart. It was very smart of you to have guessed.”

The child insisted on Halloween that she be dressed like me. Megan, her mother had a hard time designing paper accessories from her memory which did not carry as indelible an image of me as the child’s mind did. So she could not satisfy her daughter fully but it was something.

More than a year later, she told me on email, “Sydney still talks about you so often- how she knows a real live princess from India. If I say someone’s beautiful she says “But are they beautiful like the princess who came home?” So I guess you’re the standard of beauty to that little girl.”

She also sent me a ‘poem’ that Sydney composed for me and her teacher wrote, as one of her first creative writing exercise at school at age 5!

Bring back my butterfly for this day, bring back my lovely princess for the day,
this day has come today, for lovely princess for the next day
on my love day with princess and this day has been really great
and this day has become a great day. I love you, princess.

The email ended with lines she dictated to her mom for me: Merry Christmas! Thank you for the card on my computer. Can you visit me when you come back to Minnesota? You can come see my house and come visit me.

Love, Sydney

Moral of the story none except that I hope the pure and the trusting inherit the earth.