She was Lolita; my Lolita; dancing in the backyard of my friend's home. She twirled in her pale, pink, Easter dance with small chocolates melting in her hands. She was frail angel that snuck into the guest room at night to sleep against me when she got scared. She was growing and morphing into a beautiful, young woman before my eyes. But, no matter how old she became, she was still my Lolita.
My beautiful Lolita.

1. Annabel Marie