secret names

As a kid, I never wanted to become one of those grown-ups who is a "grown-up:" caught up in a superior adultness, and oblivious to the curious world that was waiting to be discovered. And of course, those grown-ups were also less kind and playful around kids, always trying hard to cover their cold exterior and impose our immaturity on us.

But my favorite grown-up was my parents' younger friend Maryam. She was different. She had access to the curious world. She was a writer and a translator, in her late 20's. Her cat's name was Pushkin.* She had short, sharp, black hair and big brown eyes (she would do a trick for me blinking 100 times per second; lashes moving like a butterfly's wings). Her boyfriend was a painter who had been schooled under my father. He used to wear Lenon glasses and had a loud, inviting laugh.

Maryam would dance with me in parties, let me take her hand and give her a tour of my newest hiding place, or tell her secrets about my secret friends.

That glorious couple broke up after a few years. I never asked why.

She got married and went to India for a few months. She got divorced soon after and I didn't ask why.

Maryam became my favorite name.

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Right around the time when my 20s began, I noticed that I'm being a "grown-up" grown-up. I just didn't know what to say to little kids, fearing I'd offend them. Or maybe I didn't want to taint their innocence with my adult experiments. But that slowly changed, remembering Maryam.

A few days ago a friend of a friend's dropped by for tea. A beautiful stranger, she walked into my attic holding a blond 3-year-old girl who was tired and sleepy. The mother was only 20. We had tea (and apple cider for the kid). The morning of, cleaning my room and making it more suitable for two, I'd found a doll I bought in a flea market two years ago. I hid it in my closet. And when the model-mother and the small girl were about to leave, I gave the doll to her.

"What's her name?" the girl shyly asked.

"It's a secret. If you're a good mommy, she will tell you what her name is."

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I hear Maryam's lives in New York. She has a baby now. She continues to write.

I miss telling her secrets.