M said proverbially with all the abundant wisdom of her four years of age.
I humbly asked for an explanation, full aware that my ignorance of the term showed my poorly evolved and pedestrian mind.
What I was able to understand from her explanation is that dolls are stuffed with cotton and/or their hair is made of it. And that the silly crazy girls who deliver ingenious one-liners (such as herself) are cotton balls.
She called herself one after an effervescent display of zaniness.
She's like a cotton ball
weightless
and fleeting
as bubbles of champagne.
She's light
like a golden spec of dust
like a dandelion blowing in the wind.
Cotton balls do not possess the insanity of tortured poets.
M's quirkiness is far above
and I read it in her cotton candy smiles.
I have not reincarnated enough.
I'm not transcended enough
to reach that cloud-like state of being.
But I'll dream every night of being a cotton ball.
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