See You Later Alligator

He was six. Brown hair, brown eyes, with a round freckled face that longed. His mommy had died two days earlier, in a tragic accident on her way to work. I did not know him, we’d never met, but I knew his 16 year old sister, a friend of my daughter’s. And she needed a break, some time with friends, time to grieve. I offered to keep him, for the day, for a weekend, for however long she needed. Her stepfather was too cocooned with sorrow to be of any help now. We had a delightful play date, this darling six-year-old soldier and I. We drank lots of pop, ate crazy amounts of sugar, cooked food, and played board games galore. I wanted a smile. I wanted him to know that life goes on, even when your mommy doesn’t. We both needed to play; him more than I, but my heart was aching; he was such a good boy. His name I have forgotten. This was twenty-one years ago, and it was only one day. I was worried it would take him all day to smile. I was wrong. He was six, remember? When his sister came to get him, I did not want to let him go. We had become best-ies, this six year old soldier and I. We were giggling like seven months old, at this point. I hugged him really tightly, not wanting to ever let him go. Anywhere without his mommy. At the last second I yelled, “See you later, alligator.” He turned; his face split into a giant grin. He ran back for another hug. And he said, “That’s good! Can I USE that?” “Use it all you want,” I said. I am still smiling about this boy without a name twenty-one years later. My boy.