BEING CRISSIE

 

It’s a long ride by train to Albany, where I’d been dispatched to lobby legislators.

As I was nodding off, a dozen children entered the car, a kindergarten excursion

riding one stop to the next, chattering about the sights outside the windows,

though mostly they talked about Crissie.

 

“Where’s Crissie?” one said. “With Mrs. Woods” was the answer.

Another said, “I saved a seat for Crissie!” “See the old house!”

“Crissie would like that!” “Here she is!” “Crissie!” “Crissie! Sit with me!”

Do you think I looked around to see her? I did.

 

She held Mrs. Woods’s hand. Crissie had blond curls, of course, wore

a navy-blue Easter coat with a pink-and-white dress, acknowledged her subjects

with an adorable smile. “Crissie!” “Crissie, sit here!” “Look, Crissie, a junkyard!”

Clambering to a seat she exclaimed, “Oh, look at all the junk!”

 

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be a Crissie – princesses in their aura

of sunshine, assemblymen in their gray stone castles, withholding or granting

the love or the laws we need? Are you still jealous? Remember, a Crissie can’t be

glum or weary, bored or unavailable. Eternal sunniness is the price of our worship.

 

 

 

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