Louise

Louise always had ideas. She would scribble them into her little books, drawing pictures, sticking stickers and showing her friends. “This is my dream book, my book of dreams.” She wanted to do it all; see the world, meet stars, find true love. She was, after all, the star of her very own movie, premiere date to be determined. Her friends would read her lists, and there were many many lists, and laugh. “Louise, this is too much. You have to pick one.”

“One?!” She thought. How could she pick just one? These ideas were like seeds she’d planted on paper, watering them every time she read them over, her joy: sunlight. So, Louise found new friends, but she decided to only share her ideas with the only other magical person in the world that she knew: her grandma, Fifi.

Fifi loved her Louise. She’d watch her lovingly as Louise would tell her about all the things they would do together. “We’ll go to Paris and then to France!” Fifi would laugh. “Yes, Louise, but you’ll have to tell me when. I need to plan my outfits.” Outfits were a big deal, and picking the perfect outfit for Paris and for France would need planning. So naturally, they ravaged through magazines, cutting out different outfits and pasting them next to Louise’s different ideas. Her little black books were getting bigger and bigger, and with Fifi’s curatorial edge, their magical dream wardrobe was as colorful and exciting as you could get. Fifi loved color: she was bold but elegant, in dress and demeanor. If she insulted you, you’d thank her, because you were grateful she even wasted her breath on acknowledging you. She was the matriarch of the family and loved so fiercely, you could only know it was real. But her Louise was special to her, and Louise’s ideas were to be loved just as fiercely.

Fifi’s eyes were different from everyone else’s; that’s how Louise knew she was magical. They were like glitter, and Louise loved glitter.

Louise carried her little black books with her everywhere, filling them up and saving them in her special “nobody touch these boxes, these are my, Louise Banaso’s, boxes only boxes.” She even drew a lock on them in bright pink, Sharpie permanent marker; she meant serious business. By the time she was 15, Louise had stuffed four big boxes of ideas on the top shelf of her closet. By 18, she had managed to stack three more on top. “That’s a lot of ideas. How will I get through them all?” Overwhelmed, she locked her closet and left.

College flew by, and Louise and Fifi’s talks turned into Louise spilling her love life to Fifi. “Why don’t you work on those ideas, Louise? You can be in love later.” “Later?” Louise thought. When would later come? Who would later look like? Is later ever going to happen? Fifi would change the subject. They would laugh about something else, look through magazines and laugh some more.

Louise was 25 when Fifi died. Her magical person gone, leaving Louise with no glitter in her life. “We never got to go to Paris, or to France.” Louise began to cry and then laugh to herself. For the first time in a long time, she had an idea. She ran to her closet to open her little books. “I’ll read through all of our ideas again, and I’ll start doing them, one by one.”

She opened the first box, and taking out her first dream book, she noticed something fall out. “Is that a dollar?” She flipped through the pages, and for every idea, there was a dollar bookmarked into the page. Louise frantically laid out every book she’d ever written in, covering her bedroom floor. 20,000 ideas later, she found $20,000. “To my Louise, I told you I’d take you to Paris… and France too.” Fifi’s handwriting glittered. She had pasted in a red coat next to her name. “Ideas are magical, Louise. Share them. P.S. what do you think of this outfit?”