It is a time when night is nearly over and dawn is just beginning to show her soft pink face. My bedroom is dark except for a silvery wisp of light beginning to stretch a shadow across the floor. I'm awake, have been for a long while, for sleep is the last thing on my mind. I'm consumed with anticipation of the details for today's celebration.

Edging quietly from the bed, so as not to disturb my aging mother, who snores contentedly, I thread barefoot on the cold tile of the hall and peek in on my sleeping company.

Aunt Nell and Uncle Mac curl together on the sofa bed, spoon fashion, while their baby granddaughter snuggles deep in Nell's arms. Five children: nieces, nephews and cousins; all under the age of ten;, all sprawled across the floor on pallets; all in various positions, with nary a stitch of blankets covering their sleeping forms. I cover them with warm quilts, gently moving an arm here, a leg there. Heading back up the hall, I pause to adjust the thermostat to offset the chilly October morning.

I move further down the hall to my daughter's room and listen carefully at the door. She is probably still dreaming the night away, but I need to see her, hold her and hear her sweet voice call me Mama again, while she is still my Angel, my baby, my little girl. My desire is to see her in her buttercup yellow bedroom, surrounded by her childhood toys and record albums. I guess I don't want her to grow up, but today she will; today is Angie's wedding day.

I grasp the cool door knob, turn it quietly and step into her room; the pre-dawn light and the dim burning lamp gives the room a luminous glow. One dainty foot protrudes the blanket's edge, while the rest of her petite form is shrouded in covers, mummy style. I remove the pillow from over her head and smile down on her lovely face; dark, tumbling curls abound and sooty eyelashes lie gently on her creamy skin. She is beautiful. I caress her soft rosy cheek, push an errant lock from across her eyes, and smile as she stirs ever so slightly.

"Wake up, baby," I coo into her ear, settling myself down beside her. A slow smile spreads across her face, then reach her chocolate colored eyes as they flutter open and focus on mine.

Angie struggles against twisted bed covers, gives into a deep yawn and props herself on fluffy pillows. "Mama," she whispers, as though not surprised, "I was dreaming about the time you taught me to dive into that pool in Ft. Lauderdale, the summer I turned seven." We laugh, for her words bring the incident immediately to mind. "Remember, Mama how I kept saying, 'I can't do it'?"

"Yes, but I remember how you kept on trying."

"I was so tired, my eyes burned, but I had to get it right."

"Well, Angie, you are my determined little girl."

"Just like you, Mama," she giggled.

"Yes," I smile back, "just like me." We hug each other tightly.

We speak of silly things, of tender things, things that spark memories of our past, and ramble through eighteen years of her life. The morning light - despite my wish to hold it back - sneaks into her room, and now I see John Cougar tacked meticulously to the ceiling above us, smaller posters with silly lines like: "This is my mess", "Do not enter" and "A teen lives here" printed carefully in her schoolgirl hand. Her headboard is carefully arranged with every doll she ever loved, while a Dothan High School victory banner waves from across the room.

If the black and white photo of Angie dressed out in her Flag Corps uniform, if the old movie stubs, if the yellowed report cards, if the teen magazines, if the ridiculous hats from the Peanut Festival, and if the clutter of a curling iron, blow dryer, nail polish, and makeup on her dresser, are visible proof of her happy childhood, then the snapshot souvenirs within my heart are proof also.

Watching me eye the remnants of her youth, Angie bestows the collage of memorabilia with a woeful sigh. "I should have packed this junk away by now, you know. But it just doesn't seem to belong anywhere else. I'm afraid my kid stuff will be out of place in our new apartment."

I hear the tears in her voice, and can't help hugging her closer to me.

"Do I have to move them right away?" a sob catches her words and she stops, I know she is crying.

"Of course not," I say, determined to soothe her worry. "You don't have to move anything until you're ready."

She turns, takes my face in her small hands and looks me straight in the eyes, "I love you, Mama, and I'm sure gonna miss you. But please, let's not change my room for at least a little while, okay? I guess I need to know I can touch my past, I need to know right where my keepsakes are, I guess what I really mean is I just need to know that sometime, if I want to, I can still be your little girl again." Angie's voice cracked and she laid her head on my own trembling shoulders.

"Baby girl, you can leave your things here as long as you need, but you don't need to look at things to know you will always be my little girl."

We talk some, then we cry; we hug some, then we laugh at our silliness. We wipe away each others tears, laugh some more, and then before we know it, we start crying all over again. Long before either of us is ready, the rest of the household begins to stir and we know our private time on this auspicious day is ending.

As I leave her room, I realize I hadn't lost my little girl at all. She has changed, and will continue to do so for the rest of her life. But she will always be mine, whether she be a woman or a child, and though she passes beyond the frilly yellow curtains in her room, our relationship will only grow, different, but never diminished.

As for today I'm kinda hopeful she'll need me, at least as much as I need her.