My Mama’s youngest sister is Ann, though I’ve called her NanNan for so long that “Ann” feels like someone she used to be.
She’s loved The Little Prince for as long as I can remember.
I love my NanNan.
Somewhere between those two facts, a fairy tale appeared.
This story is for her.
The Woman Who Tended Invisible Things
Once, not very far from the asteroid of the Little Prince, there was a tiny planet that appeared quite ordinary from a distance.
It had no volcanoes worth mentioning.
No kings.
No businessmen.
No men counting stars.
In fact, if you flew past it quickly, you might not notice it at all.
Which was unfortunate.
Because it contained one of the most remarkable people in the universe.
She was known throughout the galaxies as the Woman Who Tended Invisible Things.
Though she never called herself that.
In fact, if anyone had suggested such a title, she would have laughed and offered them a piece of chocolate or a Coke.
Every morning she rose early and began her work.
At first glance, it looked as though she wasn’t doing much.
She watered roses, wrote notes, remembered birthdays, and paid attention.
No one ever applauded.
Mostly because no one understood what she was actually tending.
For you see, the flowers on her planet were hopes, and the chairs were places where lonely people might someday feel welcome.
The notes were tiny bridges stretched across distances that would otherwise become too wide.
And the children she took for Sunday drives?
They were futures.
The Woman Who Tended Invisible Things understood something many adults never learn.
Most people do not need grand rescues.
Most people need small mercies.
A little encouragement.
A little relief.
A little room to breathe.
So she spent her days creating these things.
Quietly.
Without announcement.
As naturally as other people tie their shoes.
One afternoon, a traveler arrived on her planet.
The traveler had been wandering for many years.
She carried grief in one pocket and questions in the other.
She was old enough to know life was difficult and young enough to keep hoping it might become easier.
The traveler noticed something unusual.
Things that were lost on this planet had a tendency to return.
A misplaced dream might reappear years later.
A discouraged person might rediscover courage.
A lonely child might find comfort.
A tired mother might receive an afternoon of peace.
A frightened woman might suddenly discover she could continue after all.
The traveler became curious.
“How do you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?” said the woman.
“Find things.”
The woman smiled.
“I don’t find them.”
“Then what do you do?”
“I tend them.”
The traveler thought about this.
It seemed like the sort of answer that was either very wise or completely unhelpful.
Possibly both.
So she stayed.
And watched.
She watched the woman notice things.
The way a gardener notices when a rose needs water.
The way a fox notices when someone is approaching.
The way love notices.
She noticed a child wrapping an old shirt around her neck because she missed her father.
So she gave the child a Raggedy Ann doll.
She noticed a weary mother trying to hold together a household.
So she borrowed the children for an afternoon and drove them through the countryside while a cassette played, filling the car with the story of Peter and the Wolf.
She noticed young people standing at the edge of adulthood.
So she quietly helped build a bridge toward their future.
She noticed burdens growing too heavy.
So she lifted them.
As though removing stones from a path.
As though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
The traveler realized something important.
The remarkable thing about the woman was not what she gave, but what she saw.
She saw what other people missed.
The invisible things.
The essential things.
The things hidden beneath brave faces and polite smiles and everyday conversations.
She saw when someone was carrying more than they could manage.
She saw when a heart was breaking.
She saw when hope was becoming difficult.
And because she saw it—
she acted.
The traveler remembered something she had once read long ago.
A lesson taught by a fox.
That what is essential is invisible to the eye.
For the first time, she understood.
Not just with her mind.
With her life.
The doll, the car, the tuition, the note, the drive, the phone call—none of them were the gift.
Those were merely the visible evidence of something much larger.
Attention.
Care.
Love.
The traveler looked around the tiny planet.
At the roses.
At the paths.
At the countless invisible things that had been tended back to life.
And suddenly she knew why lost things were always finding their way home there.
Someone had been paying attention.
And that, in all the universe, is one of the rarest forms of magic.
Happy Birthday, my NanNan.
Thank you for tending the invisible things.
Love, Lannie♡
