If there were ever a word that meant innocent and mature at the same time, I would use the word Maya.
Because that's what my sister is.
She's only six years old, yet I can't imagine anyone else is kinder, or more gentle than she is.
She's a mountain of pink ribbons and happiness, but also a forest of black lace and desperation. It's hard to search past those soft brown eyes without becoming lost and confused in her web.
She likes to dance. A lot.
And when she dances, you don't do a whole lot but watch her. Just watch her. Watch her pink dress twirl and sway, watch her curly black hair flop and bounce. You just watch.
She likes to take care of people.
She likes to see people smile. Even when she's sad. It's amazing, how whenever she coughs, the "ech ech!" sound she makes is sweet, as if she's proud to be coughing and hacking, as if she's happy and honored to be sick.
Some people search the world for someone like Maya, and I'm lucky to say that I have someone like her in my life.
Oh, excuse me, had someone like her in my life.
I must keep reminding myself that as of last night, I had someone like her in my life.
