I was a beautiful fairy, floating from flower to flower, dancing among the fallen leaves of the early autumn, picking the last flowers of the late summer to wear as a crown on my head, happily flitting about a lovely forest without a care in the world...

"Mary," someone said.

What's this? A mere mortal dares interrupt my contentedness?

"Mary!" the voice grew more demanding.

"What is it, mortal?" I asked, still dancing.

"Now isn't the time for that, Mary," the voice was impatient now.

"Oh, all right, what do you want, Peter?" I asked, a little irritated that my game was disrupt.

"Look." He held out his palms, and inside was his little bird- Pirate. It lay motionless, its eyes closed, resting in Peter's hands.

"So what? He's sleeping. Everything and everyone sleeps," I shrugged, wanting to get back to my game.

"I don't think he's sleeping. When we sleep, don't we breathe?"

"How would I know? I'm never awake to find out."

"I'm going to ask your mother. Will you come with me?"

I Will you come with me? /I was a command rather than a question. Peter rarely asked me questions, because he seemed to know everything. He patted the little bird on its head and we walked inside to find my mother, who was having tea with a friend. We made it into the parlor without Fanny stopping us (it was lucky that we had left the garden quietly enough that she didn't wake up from her lawn chair to stop us from going inside). When Peter saw her, he dumped the bird on her lap. I could tell my mother was about to scream, but she saved herself the indignity upon noticing the innocent, pleading look in Peter's compelling emerald eyes.

"What's happened to Pirate?" he asked.

"Oh, my darling," Mother said sympathetically, "I'm afraid your little bird has died."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, dearest," she paused, shooting a sad, but amused glance towards her friend, who smiled sympathetically back. "It means that... hmm, how do I say this? He's no longer alive. He has gone to be with God in Heaven. He'll be quite safe there, quite happy."

"Is he hurt? Will he be okay?"

"No, Peter. I'm afraid he will not be okay. Dying is something that happens when we get to ill, or too old. He cannot do anything on this earth anymore, like fly or play or sing, but in Heaven with God, he can do whatever he wants to do. Don't be sad for Pirate, love. He is very happy."

Peter became very quiet at this. Mother sent both of us away, and had a servant take the bird from her. He stalked away from the parlor, an indescribable expression on his face that had me worried. I could always tell what he was feeling. I ran after him, following him to the staircase.

"Peter, what's wrong?" I asked.

He answered simply: "Mary, I am never, never going to grow up." And with that, he went upstairs, leaving me alone.

Soon, it was Peter's third birthday. He loved his first and second birthday, but somewhere between his second and third birthdays he realized that birthdays were a celebration of growing one year older, so this year he came up with a very clever plan: he wouldn't have a birthday. If he didn't want to turn three, why should he? I thought it ingenious of him. The logic, to me, made perfect sense. Why should he turn three? Why should I, in two months? We wouldn't, so we shouldn't, so there.

That entire day, he strutted around with the cockiest grin on his face, crowing to himself and to me about how very clever he was. I, of course, was used to his cocky attitude, and was enamored with his plan, so I didn't mind his attitude a bit. I was looking forward to what the grown ups would think that night, when they had set out Peter's cake and presents, when Peter didn't turn three as they expected him to! Wouldn't it be such a fine joke? I could hardly wait until that evening.

The evening came, and my parents and nurse sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow", bringing out Peter's cake, which was eloquently decorated with his name in fancy script, and little candy flowers. It looked scrumptious, and had me wondering if one could still remain two and eat his or her three-year-old birthday cake. I decided that one could.

"Three years old! You're such a big boy now, Peter!" my mother crooned.

"Turning into a fine young gentleman," my father said proudly of his adopted son. "How does it feel to be three?"

"I'm not three," Peter said simply, that cocky smile playing upon his lips.

"But of course you are!" mother laughed. "Aren't you excited?"

"No. I don't want to be three!" he said, more forcefully. "I'll be two forever and ever."

It went on like this for a few minutes, until my father said the curséd words:

"Peter, you can't receive the presents we've bought you until you turn three!"

He laughed and smiled as he said it, as if it were some big joke, Peter's refusing to age. I gasped, quietly enough so nobody heard me, but I know I must have been gaping like a codfish, waiting in anticipation for Peter's response. I could see the turmoil on his face as he tried to decide between staying two, or presents, staying two, or presents. He wiped the sweat off of his brow and-

He conceded. He ate his cake, he received his presents. He was a-

"Failure! I'm a total failure!" he grumbled that night as we went to bed, struggling to put one of my doll's aprons over his new stuffed bear's eye. "A total failure," he repeated, trying to hide his satisfaction at turning his birthday present into a pirate. "A total... (yawn)... failure..." he said, falling asleep with the bear under his arm. I sighed, falling asleep as well, wishing fretfully that it wasn't the very best apron of my dolls' that he had picked for his new bear's eye patch...

That night, Peter had a terrible nightmare. I woke up to him screaming, tears streaming down his face, and quickly rushed to his side, cradling him in my arms like a baby. Fanny rushed into our room, but saw that he was calming down with me crooning to him to quiet down. Smiling to herself, she walked out. I believe she found it sweet that I, a mere two-year-old girl, could calm Peter and make him forget his nightmare, but I knew this wasn't an ordinary nightmare of monsters in the closet. He always slaughtered the monsters in his closet. I know, because he was sleep walking once and thought he saw one and ripped apart a favorite gown of mine that had been sticking out of the wardrobe. He wasn't afraid of monsters.

"Mum..." he cried, softly, his sobs gradually relinquishing. He wasn't talking about my mother, I don't think, because he never referred to her using her "name". He was dreaming about his mother. His real mother.