Olivia is probably around 5 or 6 years old. Today she is wearing a long white dress, with green, yellow, blue, and purple designs. Quite fitting for a week before Easter. Accented perfectly by her purple boots.
Olivia is quite chatty. She will tell you all about her purple scooter, the one that lights up at night and looks like Christmas lights.
She will ask, "Do you love this park?" even as her foster mom tells her to go play and that some people might want some peace and quiet.
And she will most certainly tell you all about her older sister, Ella.
"My big sister died. She was really sick. So now she watches over me from up in heaven," as if she is telling you she had soup for lunch.
Oh yes, she will tell you all about that, and lots more.
Maybe as you sit at a picnic table with a turkey and Swiss sandwich, sipping on a coconut cappuccino.
I think about her. Her foster mom. What her life must be like. What happened to her parents. What really happened to Ella. Just as my own kids run and giggle on the same playground with their so very different reality.
An onrush of chills has overtaken me.
All too soon, it is time for Olivia to leave. As her foster mom gets two other far less chatty kids loaded into their SUV, Olivia streaks down the sidewalk on the purple scooter in her purple boots cheerfully calling out, "Bye, guys!"
"Bye, Olivia!" I say. And then a silent "thank you."
"Daddy, how do you know her name?" Harper calls out from the swing.
Oh, that's just Olivia, I think to myself.
Ella's little sister.
Once you meet her, you don't forget her.
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