My Guardian

“Mommy, they don't have my name on the keychains.” I whine. “Am I not good enough?”

“My name isn't on there either.” I turn to the voice to see a girl wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, converse and glasses. She has multicolored eyes, but are hidden behind her glasses. “But, hey that doesn't me that you aren't special or good enough. It means that we are so unique that the people that make these don't know us yet. You are so special, little one. Don't let anyone tell you differently, sweetheart.” She touches my nose with her finger and I giggle.

My mommy comes over. “Thank you.”

“Of course, no-”

The girl is cut off my a very angry man. “Give me the money!” The man shouts.

The girl jumps in front of me and my mommy. She spread her arms trying to keep us behind her. She pushes us back away from the the angry man.

“Don't move!” The man shouts.

Bang! I jump at the sound and the girl falls into my mommy. She clutches her belly and I see blood coming through her fingers.

The angry man panics and runs. My mommy holds her hand over the girls belly but the blood is still coming. I start to cry.

“Hey, no crying. It's going to be okay.” The girl said.

And she was. My mom and I decided to stay in that town and we stayed in close contact with the girl. She became my best friend.

When I was 10, she saved my life again. Men tried to rob my house and they beat, stabbed and shot her for trying to stop them.

When I was 15, the girl with the multicolored eyes and I got into a car accident. She turned the wheel at the right moment to where I didn't get hurt. A concussion and a few broken ribs were all she sustained.

When I was 18, she helped me move out and get started in college.

When I was 24, she single handedly planned my whole wedding in two weeks. It was all I ever could ask for.

When I was 26, she was there to help with the birth of my first child. My husband and I couldn't have been happier.

When I was 28, she became the godmother of my second child.

When I was 30, she held me as I cried when Mother told us that she had cancer.

When I was 32, she got me through Mother's funeral. She never left my side. Not even once.

When I was 39, she got robbed and beaten nearly to death. She lived and came to my house to help me pick out names for my third and fourth children, two days after it happened.

When I was 45, she helped plan my first child's wedding. My daughter cried when she saw the plan.

When I was 46, she drove me to the hospital and waited for sixteen hours with me for my first grandchild to be born.

When I was 55, she saved me from drowning, and I got to see the birth of my third grandchild.

When I was 60, she helped plan my granddaughter's wedding. She wore the same dress I did.

When I was 68, she had a heart attack and she almost died, but three days later she ran a half marathon.

When I was 75, she moved into a smaller apartment, closer to my husband and I.

When I was 76, she was there with me as I watched my husband die. She held me as I cried, but she also held me as my first great grandchild was born.

And here I am, at age 80, standing in front of her coffin. Not the gun shots, stab wounds, beatings, car accidents, or heart attacks killed her. She died of old age. She was 88. I stand here motionless as I watch my best friend, my children's godmother, my hero, and my guardian angel get lowered into the ground. I start to cry, but I remember I what she always told me: “Don't cry. It's going to be okay.”

But I knew I would see her again and I was willing to wait because I know she would want me to live my life to the fullest. And my loading bar is just about full.