On princesses, flight and forgetting

Warm as toast and perfumed with imaginary flowers, why those freshly-laundered sheets invite flight her spirit insists!  Giggles float like bubbles from a magic wand, burst too soon by a mama's weary prick.  

Princess superintends this routine.  Once a white Persian of regal bearing, now dethroned following an unfortunate incident involving a child's stomach virus--unforgivable indignity--not once, but twice!  Princess is Velveteen Rabbit, an indistinguishable one-eyed mass of love- and vomit-matted acrylic fur.  

"It's time for BED, PLEASE stop jumping!"  Feeble demands are met by blue eyes dancing, not so much a challenge as a call for me to join; impassive brown eyes answer by impatiently smoothing imaginary wrinkles.  Waves of lilac and lapis roll atop her bed and curly locks peek out from a tangle of well-worn percale.  Threads won't be counted for years.

Calculating the end of my tether, she surfaces then bounces to the floor.  I think "10" but gold medals are reserved for feats of lesser significance, and besides, IT'S TIME FOR BED and I cannot let her know I'm memorizing this moment.  

I know much too soon she'll forget she can fly.