When I was a little girl, about six or seven years old, my mother took me to the fair one warm summer afternoon.
It was just her and me. No Dad. No Sam. No Rob. For one rare day, it was just us girls, seated side by side in the car, singing along to now old songs on the radio while she drove on and on, ever closer towards my dream destination - the carnival.
It took us forever to get there, hours that felt like days, but it was worth it. That day sticks out as the best day of my childhood. Maybe even my life.
I still remember everything, kind of like a dream so vivid, it stays with you long after waking up. The heat on my skin, the rush of colors, the cacophony of music, noise and cries of excitement. I remember the rides, the giant balloons, even the cotton candy guy who called me sweetheart as he handed me my own mound of pink sugared happiness.
Mom bought me practically everything I wanted that day. I knew I was lucky. Kids around me were whining and pleading to their parents for this or that, and there I was with nothing to complain about. Mom was even good-natured enough to come with me on any ride I wanted. Only now do I realize what a big deal that was. She's afraid of heights, and gets nervous if she's even in a car that's going too fast.
That day, I think she threw up at least twice, but she tried hard to hide it from me.
That was not the bad part, however. That was when, for just a few terrifying moments ... I lost her.
To this day, I'm not even sure how it happened. My fuzzy memory simply remembers her being there one minute, smiling down at me, my hand in hers, and the next ... she was gone. Just like that. Her young, innocent face, with its frame of dark golden hair, was gone. So were the eyes of comforting gray, the fabric of her white floral dress, which moments ago was fluttering around her knees, fluttering against our linked fingers.
I was so stunned I couldn't even move. I just stood there, while all around me, people brushed past, towering over me, jabbering, caught up in their own lives. It was like I was invisible.
I didn't move. I didn't speak. I just let my defense mechanism kick in.
Tears.
It worked like magic.
In an instant, they were all around me, adults, parents, even a pair of pretty teenage sisters. Finally, they noticed me, even if I'd had to bawl to get their attention. In between sobs, I told them what had happened in the awkward, unsure language of any seven-year-old. They all became anxious, alarmed, and for a moment, more worried for me than they were for their own children. It was amazing.
But that's not what I wanted, of course. I just wanted my mother.
That's what I kept screaming, and they ran around, spreading the word and trying to find her. Meanwhile, other people's mothers - feisty, fast-talking forty-somethings - attempted to comfort me, hugging me to their chests, trying to dry my tears even though they kept coming. They kept saying the same thing to me: A mother always comes back for her child.
I imagined the sun setting, the carnival wrapping up, and all these people going home and leaving me in this empty field all alone. My wonderful dream had become a nightmare. It was all over, I was sure of it.
But then she appeared, right on the heels of someone's dad. She was running, her face was flushed, and her hair was out of place, a messy halo of sunshine.
I saw her, and right then, the world seemed to shift as I focused only on her. Everything else fell away, not important, not worth remembering.
My mother was there, and that was all I needed. A mother always comes back for her child.