The other afternoon, Cheyenne and I were sitting in the living room. And by "sitting in the living room" I mean that we were spooning on the couch. (I admit.) She heard something I didn't hear, a falling leaf, perhaps, or the fibers shifting in a cotton ball, and she suddenly jumped up and off the couch, gathered her feet and ran up the stairs.
Not two minutes later, she returned. She sat just beneath the bottom stair and she looked right at me, pride in her eyes and my stuffed Winnie the Poor in her mouth.
I keep a stuffed Winnie the Pooh on my bed. I do so because Winnie the Pooh was a character my mother and I shared, a character she introduced to me, one of honesty and humility, of trust and love, and one I carried in my heart from that childhood day on. This particular Winnie the Pooh that Cheyenne carried in her mouth was the Winnie the Pooh I got for my mother, to comfort her while she was leaving us, to comfort her as he comforted me. With that in mind, I gasped when I saw Cheyenne's mouthful.
Cheyenne looked at me for small moment. She then tossed Winnie the Pooh on the floor, chased the bounce, caught it, and then jumped up onto the couch and settled down.
I'm not sure I ever loved the girl more.