What will it be like when you are gone, I wonder? You’ve been with us for so long. It’s hard to remember what it was like before you came.

First there was a line between two points, a single dimension. It was like living before consciousness. There was no awareness of others. No need for it. It was just the two of us, and I was happy with things the way they were.

Then you came into our world and added a new dimension. You turned a line into a triangle with three sharp points. Everything changed, and I was afraid at first. But then you became my little buddy. Believe it. I took you everywhere in those days. I carried you high on my shoulders, behind my head. Your legs dangled in front of my chest, and I held your ankles in my hands. I wanted to show you everything - the whole world.

When the news came that we were becoming a square, I felt jealous and protective. I didn’t want a newcomer to ruin our triangle. A part of me knew that there would never again be one little girl who was my buddy. But she came, and we saw that she was also good. In time we settled into a four-cornered life.

Then a third girl came, and we took on the shape of a star. In time I came to love our star-shaped family. I even made my own private constellation. I renamed the belt of Orion and began to call it The Three Sisters in honor of my little girls.

Years passed. Each November The Three Sisters rose in the night sky. I watched them and smiled. Things changed. You grew older and wiser and more interesting to me. And I got older too. My shoulders can no longer hold you, and the view is not enough for you anymore.

You were the rooster, the one who announced a new day and a new era. The end of our line and the beginning of our shapes. Reiley Rooster Simon and Schuster. I swear we used to call you that. And oh how you did fly from animals to books, from Old McDonald to Jung, from little girl to young woman.

My oldest daughter doesn't believe in God anymore, so she says. She told me this recently at Starbucks.

Starbucks is the place we go to talk. The house is the place where we do the daddy/daughter thing. I enforce tough boundaries, which is my job, and she pushes hard against them, which is hers. Sometimes we get into passionate arguments about this, which can be a strain. But when I take her to Starbucks, it's like we become two different people. We sit down and she starts talking. She talks to me about everything at Starbucks.

So I like taking her to Starbucks, as you can imagine. It's our thing and we both know it. I'll say, “Let's go to Starbucks,” and she'll give me the thumbs up. It means “Let's talk.”

We were sitting there sipping our hot drinks recently and I said, “So tell me how you and God are doing these days.”

She got a sad look in her eyes before she spoke. She never hesitated, apparently never even considered hiding this from me. She put a mock-frown on her face, which is a way of indicating that you are serious about what you are going to say. Then she shook her head slowly back and forth in the way people do when they want you to know they regret having to say something, but they must.

“Don't believe in him. I want to. I really wish I did. I've tried to believe in him, but I just don't.”

I'd say about a hundred thoughts rushed into my head in that instant. But the thing that pushed its way to the surface was a warning thought. “Be very careful with her. Listen to her. Don't speak.”

How is it possible that we have arrived at this final moment? For years we lived with hangaburs, peasghetti, arts and crabs, aminals, and other delightful, childish mispronunciations. Each of these had its day of glory and then passed away in its time. Now we are down to just one – "Ponybail Tand."

Lillian's hair is too short to ever need a ponytail band, but sometimes she wants one when she is playing one of her complex games with her stuffed animals and her little toy horses. She will burst out of her room, impatiently asking if anyone has a ponybail tand. There's something about this that reminds me of Moe Szyslak on the Simpsons, clutching the phone and desperately shouting to his bar patrons, “Is there an Al Caholic here?” while everyone laughs.

The older girls snicker behind their fingers and hand one over. She doesn't notice the giggling because her mind is still wrapped up in the drama unfolding back in her room. Love Monkey is having tea with the Big Horse, only the horse needs her tail wrapped up with a ponybail tand because it's a fancy affair and even the Valentine Doggy has been invited.

The two older sisters have been warned, on pain of immediate death, never to say it correctly in her presence. I'm afraid if she ever hears “Ponytail band,” the spell will be broken and the whole family will be forced to board the ship that is even now ready to set sail upon the turbulent waters of girlish adolescence. My oldest boarded this ship a few years ago, and I will allow that she seems to be doing fine. The middle one finally released her white-knuckle grip on the railing and went aboard, though I notice with pleasure that she still has her blankie tucked under her arm.

Little Lillian holds our last lifeline, and the name of that blessed tether is “Ponybail Tand.”