The Fairy Queen

In a quiet Georgia town, where the air hung heavy with secrets and unspoken worries, there stood a magnificent tree across the street from our house. Its wide trunk and lush spring foliage made it look like it had sprung straight from the pages of a fairytale. To my nine-year-old eyes, it was clearly the dwelling place of magical creatures.

My fascination with fairies had been nurtured by a precious gift a received for my birthday: Fairyopolis, a children's book brimming with pixie dust, miniature note cards, and all the secrets one needed to seek out and find the Little Folk. It was my escape, a portal to a world where worries didn't exist, and magic solved all problems.

One day, as I pored over my treasured book, my sister made a suggestion that piqued my interest: "Why don't you write a note to a fairy and leave it in the tree? See if you get a response."

My heart raced with excitement as I penned my tiny missive, my handwriting careful and hopeful. With trembling hands, I tucked it into a crevice in the tree's bark, then raced home to wait, barely able to contain my anticipation.

An hour crawled by, each minute stretching like taffy. Finally, we returned to the tree. As I peered around to where I had pinned my tiny letter, my breath caught in my throat. There, nestled among the rustling leaves, was a new note.

I lost my mind.

The response wasn't just from any fairy—it was from the Fairy Queen herself! Her handwriting was impossibly small, each letter a work of art. I read and reread the note, my imagination soaring with each word.

And so began my correspondence with the ruler of the fairy realm. Each exchange was a lifeline, pulling me out of the gray reality of our home and into a world of wonder and possibility. In her letters, the Fairy Queen spoke of grand balls where fireflies lit up the dance floor, of dew drop feasts and moonbeam rides.

But letters weren't enough. I yearned to see the fairies, to beg them to whisk us away to their magical kingdom where we could play forever, free from the weight of grown-up worries that seemed to press down all around us.

The following day, as I waited impatiently for the Fairy Queen's reply, I decided to keep watch, hopeful for the chance to glimpse the slightest glimmer of her wings near the strong oak. Perched by the window, I stared at the tree, determined to witness the Queen's appearance.

That's when I saw her.

Crossing the street with a tiny piece of paper in hand was not a glittering, winged creature, but a familiar figure. My Fairy Queen, my protector, my gateway to childhood joy, was none other than my big sister, Erika.

In that moment, as laughter bubbled up inside me, I understood. She had created this magic for me, carving out a space for wonder and play in a world that often felt too harsh, too dark. With her unthinkably small handwriting and boundless imagination, she had given me the gift of a wonderous childhood memory.

Later, Erika confessed that when she saw me watching from the window, her heart had sunk. She thought I'd be devastated to learn the truth, that the magic would be shattered. She braced herself for tears, for accusations of lying, for the end of our fairy tale.

But what she didn't realize was that discovering her as the Fairy Queen only made the magic more real to me. It wasn't some distant, unknowable being who cared about me – it was my sister, who loved me enough to create an entire magical world just for us. Her dedication, her creativity, her love – these were the true magic, more powerful than any fairy dust.

When I ran out to her, beaming and laughing, she was stunned. "You're not upset?" she asked, confusion clear in her voice.

"Are you kidding?" I replied, hugging her tightly. "My sister is the Fairy Queen! That's even better than real fairies!"

Years later, I still smile every time I see her neat, minuscule script. The Fairy Queen may have been her grandest role, but it was just one of many characters she played to keep the magic alive for me. In a home where childhood often felt like a luxury we couldn't afford, she made sure I never went without. That I always wished, and hoped, and loved.

My sister, my Fairy Queen, preserved my childhood with each hug, tiny note, and fantastical game. She let me be a kid when the grown-ups around us couldn't, or simply wouldn't. And for that, she'll always be royalty in my eyes.

Now, as an adult, I understand the true magic of those moments. It wasn't just about fairies and secret notes—it was about love, protection, and the power of storytelling. In crafting those tales, my sister wove a shield of imagination around us both, one that still shimmers with possibility whenever I remember those days. It's the reason I still love storytelling. It's the reason I am a writer. Because a Fairy Queen once told me that I could be anything I wanted to be, that I was special, that I was loved, and she meant it.

Love you, sis.