Little Maya

When I came home at 11:00 PM, my little sister Maya was in tears. Her hair curtained her face and she let out a pitiful whimper and stumbled towards me when she saw me come through the door. She was wearing brown pajamas with pink flowers and she smelled like shampoo.

"Mama's gone," she cried into my open arms. "Mama's not here."

I picked her up and consoled her. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her skinny legs around my middle. She kept crying. My neck got wet. I rubbed her back and walked her to her mama's room.

"She'll be here when you wake up, I promise." And I laid her little body down into a king size bed and put a blanket over it. She curled into a ball and turned on her side. She hiccuped and put her face against the fabric of the blanket.

I shouldn't have promised her that. All sorts of things might happen before she gets home, namely car accidents, tornadoes, abduction. Does this little girl even understand what a promise is? I'm not sure.

But those were the words that got her eyes to close and her breathing to soften. She was still hiccuping when I walked away. She looked so little in that bed.