My niece Edie May is edible. When she was tiny I would lay her down and grasp curling, pink toes in my mouth, half expecting to taste marzipan. Now, when I visit her in Greytown she stands at the door announcing my arrival and my day is immediately perfect. It makes my fingertips tingle when I touch the golden curls tangled on her forehead. The confectionery cuteness of her wriggling little body renders me speechless. I get a warm whooshing in my belly when she puts her little hand in mine.

Her world is full of the immediacies of extreme youth. A lemonade ice-block can bring transcendent joy. Or she will crumple into despair when an afternoon nap is announced. She has discovered the art of singing songs comprised of undiluted make-believe and I want to bottle the moments up, surely a cure for all the worlds maladies?

When Rob and I stay at my sister’s house, Edie always wakes me before dawn. She stands beside my head shout-whispering my name in her two-year old tone. She climbs into bed with me and tells me stories that meander through the short alleys of her memories. I lie beside her, full of retreating sleep, and an unquantifiable love.

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