ONCE on a queer starry night, a nursery window was wide open, welcoming the mid-March breeze blow through it and into the nursery. The mother, Margaret of the child pulled a long white night gown over her daughter's head of tight brown curls. It was the nurse's day off and so, it was her duty to make sure Charlotte was to sleep. But Charlotte's eyes twinkled, not an ounce of sleepiness in the gray-blue gems. She was a darling little creature like her great-grandmother was, and her grandmother and her own mother was.
Margaret tucked her daughter into her bed, pulling the covers of her child with certain tenderness as if it was some sort of a farewell. She retreated back to the rocking chair beside the dancing flames behind the mantle of the fireplace, looking wearily at the open window. Slowly as she relaxed into her chair, she pulled out her sewing and began sewing with the light from the fire. It was barely a light but it would do.
After a few patched up stockings, a leaf-green clothed boy flew through the window, his face poised in a happy half-grin smile. The mother stood up from her seat, putting away the sewing. 'It seems I need to pass Never land on now, Peter," said Margaret first. Peter was used to being passed on, Wendy to Jane, Jane to Margaret, Margaret now to Charlotte but he never went through the evening with his eyes quite dry.
'You promised… not to grow… up,' he finally stated.
'You should know, Peter. Some of us do grow up, even if we'd rather not. You know that.'
At Margaret's reply, Peter's eyes began to moist as he turned away. He never cried. Soon the single tear turned to more, those turning to heaving sobs. Charlotte sat up in bed, startled by the crying quite near to her bed.
'Boy,' she said, 'why are you crying?'
Peter rose from the floor, wiping his cheeks with his wrist and bowed to her. Silently, Charlotte bowed back from her seat on her bed.
'Hallo,' he said.
'Hallo,' she said.
'My name is Peter Pan.'
'My name is Charlotte Carmichael.'
'I came to take my mother,' he explained, 'to Never land.'
'She is my mother as well.'
Silently, Margaret slipped out of the nursery to gather a few things. When she returned, only minutes later, she found her daughter flying around the room, her arms outstretched and Peter perched at the windowsill, crowing his glorious crow of his. Her face felt pale to hear that crow, bringing back so many old memories.
Charlotte watched her mother curiously. She hadn't seen her mother so still and silent before. Her cardigan was over her mother arm and slowly her mummy approached her and helped her put it on.
'Good bye, Peter.' she said finally. She pressed a kiss onto Charlotte's forehead, wrapping her arms tightly around the chest of her child. Soon, Margaret let go of Charlotte. Slowly she flew over to the window, stood upon the windowsill and bid her mother goodbye.
'Are we really going to fly there, Peter?' she asked so curiously, that Peter was becoming found of the look.
'Of course.' He replied a little impatiently, he had done it so many times before, 'second star to the right-'
'-Straight on till morning.'