A couple weeks ago at a park day, attended by an assortment of friends and strangers, and where I am often met with hugs and kisses by various little ones, I had just settled in and became immediately engrossed in a conversation with Deborah about something either brilliant or incomprehensible, or both. I can't remember.
As we impressed the hell out of ourselves by being so smart, one of the mine-ish little kids came and curled up in my lap. My response, without looking down, was to pet and cradle the tiny tot, whom I've known forever. There I sat, for twenty minutes, relishing the deluge of Deborah's witticisms, petting this kid, who has been in my lap no less than 5,000 times before. Then I looked down and saw a boy I have never met in my life. His head was turned, and he just stayed there, all curled up. This was rather odd, I thought.
"Hi. Who are you?"
"I'm Toby." (Head still turned.)
"I'm Cheyenne, do you know me?"
"No, but I wanted to sit on you."
"Okay, I'm really glad you did."
That's when he sat up and I realized why I assumed he was mine. Not -ish, but mine.
Toby looks exactly like Maia. Exactly. He is the same size, has the same impishness, sweetness, and he folded into my lap as though he'd been doing it his whole life.
Of COURSE due to the sun and weird angles, the resemblance isn't quite as pronounced in this picture, but he really does look like her.
This is Toby:
He is so incredibly sweet and so very intent on sitting in my lap. These are good things, because talking to him helped keep the magma of hatred from erupting out of my heart. I really enjoy Toby a lot, but no one could replace Maia.
I love you Maia, I'm sorry you're not allowed to remember.