a Journey

I used to think that “Princess” was Papa’s domain on nicknames for me. That was until Lama decided to take out a space on it too. I guess, I started to become more accustomed to hearing someone else call me "P*".

Later on, when Mister M told me, in rather embarrassed hushed tones, that he actually wanted to call me  “Little P*” I had to giggle. Even after much prodding (“Hunny, was it because you had to sleep on the couch?”) he still couldn’t articulate just what about me inspired him to call me that.

And when Mister Libre said “P*” spontaneously as we were driving to school, I looked out at the cars zooming past us and laughed.

I thought back to all those times I dashed for the phone each time it rang, just so Papa won’t get to it before I did. Just so he couldn’t holler, “P*, your call!” I am certain he derived great satisfaction seeing my foam at the mouth from embarrassment as I stuttered “Hello?” into the phone.

Most times, the other party was convulsed with laughter and had the tendency to mimic in a high falsetto “Princessssss!” It usually took about five minutes for coherence to return. Even in school, the teachers who were close to me, they knew the nickname Papa gave me.

Now, “P*” is only used for special occasions – rare and oft-missed. I may have outgrown the constant “P*” phase, but I know she’s still inside me. The girl who fiercely stood up (and sometimes fought) for those she loved; the trust she placed in those she called her “inner circle”; the gullibility, the impulsiveness; the stubbornness; the insecurities and vulnerability – they’re still there.