I Remember

Dear Charlotte

I must not do harm.

This is the most important rule, the utterly crucial part of the contract. The other parts, well, they can bend. But, above all, I must not do harm.

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I must not tell lies.

I'm actually not certain why this is a rule. Personally, I think it's just plain silly, but I'm not the one who decides. Actually, I don't think any one person does it, I think that the rules are always just. . . there. . .

. . .And I know that I must not tell lies.

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"Why can't anyone else see you?"

I must not tell lies, so why is she allowed to ask such questions? Surely the truth would only do her harm, and I must not do harm.

Yet still she asks, and still I must answer.

So I do.

"My dear, they're just not looking in the right places."

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I help wake her up in the morning.

Actually, come to think of it, I help her do everything in the morning. It's kind of our thing.

Well, I guess everything is really our thing.

I help her wake up in the morning. I rub the sleep out of her eyes (I swear she doesn't need my help with this, and she swears it's just not the same without me). I pick out her outfit while she brushes her teeth, I braid her hair while she laces her boots.

I don't help her once we're out of her room. Too many questions raised.

I help her find her backpack (at the foot of the stairs, just like always) and I keep her awake while she waits for the bus (and while I finish up her homework).

I go to school with her, but she doesn't know that. Too many questions.

The older she gets, the more questions there are. And questions lead to truth, and truth leads to harm, and I must not do harm.

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A light blue blob with a crescent smile.

The first time she told her parents about me, she was four. And, really, to her credit, she didn't actually say anything out loud.

A light blue blob with a crescent smile, smeared with errant finger paint on her sheet of copy paper.

To her parents, it was adorable. To me, it was downright terrifying.

So you can imagine how I felt when she gave me a name.

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Felix.

According to "legend," the child chooses the name shortly before their friend is renounced.

Felix. My name is Felix.

My name has been Felix for years, yet here I still am.

I don't really know what to make of that.

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When she first told her friends about me, her "best friend Felix," she was five.

The third day of kindergarten, and she'd already done the one thing I'd prayed she didn't do (figures the prayers didn't work- I suppose I answer to a different sort of god).