By Lina Norris-Raman, TIWP Student

You were sitting in our backyard, picking at the grass. It’s 9:30, and the fireflies are starting to come out.  I call to you, “Mimi, it’s time to come in!” “One minute mama!” you say, cupping a firefly in your hand. You’re mesmerized by the creature, which I think is cute. “Mama look!” you say opening your hands to show me the firefly which quickly escapes. “No!! Glowy! Come back!” you call to the firefly. You were only six at the time, still my clumsy, goofy, sweet girl. I’m sorry, Mimi.

You’re newly eleven now, sitting on the counter in your paint-stained jeans, biting into an apple. You ask me, “hey mama, if you could have one wish, what would it be? “That my little baby will always be happy, and you?” “Mama! I’m not your little baby anymore!” you shout. “Oh Mimi, you’ll always be my baby. Now, what’s your wish?” “To be eleven forever!” you exclaim, sprawling your arms out wide. I chuckle. You’ll always be my baby, I think. I’m sorry, Mimi. 

Now, we are in the living room. I’m shouting, screaming at you. You’ve been suspended for punching Ramona Barker. I’m not happy. “Why do you have to be so hard on me all the time?!” you yell, tears dripping down your cheeks. “Hard on you!? Maybe because you’re such a disappointment!” I gasp. No.. No.. please forgive me. I’m so.. so.. sorry, Mimi.

You’re almost twelve now, lying in your hospital bed, grinning. I’m horrified, sobbing, squeezing your hands. “It’s okay mom,” you say. “At least I’ll be eleven forever.” I’m sorry, Mimi.