We sat about halfway back from the stage in the weird half-gym where my niece would be performing as Mother Goose in the kindergarten musical. It was hot and loud. Collin was on the end of our row of folding chairs, because that's life with a wheelchair.
She came through the door bundled up in a coat, like maybe she had chosen to skip part of her recess to see this play. She had the confidence of a "big kid". Probably at least third grade. So it must have been a younger sibling she was there to see. She spotted her parents and moved toward them. Until she saw Collin.
She stopped in her tracks when she laid eyes on him. I heard her audibly gasp. Her face lit up with a delight that I didn't understand, but recognized immediately. I smiled back at her, mostly because I couldn't help it, and she took a seat close by as the play started.
I look at Collin a lot during events. I enjoy it more when I see his reaction. And every time I looked over, she was watching him too.
Before the applause had completely faded, she climbed between the seats in front of us and was in our row. She was touching Collin before the words were all the way out of her mouth: "Hi, what's your name?" When he didn't answer, she looked up at me, not willing to wait. "What's his name?"
She rubbed his head, just like he likes. She complimented his shoes. She squeezed his hand. She laughed at his happy kicks.
"What's your name?" I asked. She looked straight at me. "Annie," she said. "My dream is to start a school for kids like Collin."