Londyn Bella Marie,
My Bella Bella,
Princess Bell.
She lives in a castle with the "Ting" (who is me),
not the Queen, but always the "Ting;"
Always the "Ting"
except when she decides I am something else.
She is 4 and I am 70
We can’t run and play like I could with her “Bobo” and “Sissy” 13 or 14 years ago
We can’t crawl into a small tent on the floor of the living room
and pretend to be camping on the moon.
We can’t go hunting for dragon eggs in my front yard.
Some days I can’t even rise from my chair,
and yet we play, with our imaginations at full volume.
She is the teacher,
I am the student.
She is the doctor,
I am her patient.
She is a bad fairy - and so am I
until the good fairies are needed to make things right again.
She is the Queen and I drive her carriage (which is my recliner)
through the bumpy forest and over the rushing river.
We fly to the stars in our rocket ship (recliner).
She is Beauty.
I am the Beast.
She is a Bella Bella Ballerina
and the stage is a red plush throw spread out on the floor.
Her two imaginary friends Nono and Fifi twirl and spin at her sides.
I watch from my front-row mezzanine recliner seat
and applaud with gusto when the ballet is done.
Brava! Brava!
She smiles her beautiful smile and giggles her sweet giggle,
takes a sweeping final bow, and suddenly, she says
"Wet's pwetend you are the 'Ting' now, Mawney. Dot it?"
Not the Queen but always the 'Ting;"
Always the 'Ting'
and she is Princess Bell.
My Bella Bella,
Londyn Bella Marie
