He wonders — which Christmas star is she?

Decembers reminds him of green wagons, silver bells and stars.

It was December 1997 when he walked into a hospital room on Santa Rosa Hospital’s eighth floor, the floor for children with cancer, leukemia and AIDS.

A 4-year-old girl was there, the youngest sister among siblings he knew from the West Side. He was curious about the limp in her gait. Like their mother, she was often sick.

That December, he received a call that the mother had died from AIDS, which also afflicted the 4-year-old. He hung up and went to the hospital, across the street from his apartment.

Walking into the child’s room, he found her swallowed in her bed, a hospital gown draped across her skeletal frame. Her already short hair had been shaved because of lice, and her face was smeared with white cream because of a rash. All her teeth were capped with silver, like miniature silver bells.

She was crying. Three nurses were treating her and trying to cheer her up. He stayed for a while and then returned that night. He kept returning, two or three times a day or night. He wasn’t sure why except that the child was dying and hated being alone. There were family issues, and usually, her only visitors were the nurses and him. People assumed he was her father.

In those first days, she wasn’t allowed to eat solid food.

“But I’m hungry!” she’d cry. The decision was reversed to allow solid food. Why deny the pleasure of food to a dying child?

She craved mashed potatoes, so he brought her homemade mashed potatoes. Taking a spoonful, she smelled it, took a small bite and was satisfied. That night was the first time he saw her silver smile.

On his visits, they’d watch “The Lion King,” “The Little Mermaid” and “Toy Story” so often that she anticipated the dialogue.

At the end of the eighth floor was the hospice room for children. When children died, the nurses would close the hospital room doors so no one would see the body being rolled away. Looking at the laughing child watching cartoons, he’d wonder when she’d be in “The Butterfly Room.”

One Sunday afternoon, that first December, he looked out of the window of her room facing Milam Park and watched a silver balloon drift past the window, over the large Christmas tree in the park, and ascend like a disappearing star.

On Christmas Eve, he stopped by the hospital to see her before going to a Christmas party. She was restless and cried when he tried to leave.

She didn’t like being alone and cried when people left, so the nurses made a makeshift bed out of an old green-framed wagon and kept her with them behind their station. She had a little cassette player on which she’d listen to children’s music.

During the day, he’d pull her down the corridor until he had to leave or she fell asleep. If she was connected to her IV, maneuvering the wagon was trickier. Up and down the floor they’d roll, talking or listening to the music from her radio. Often, when he’d look behind to see if she was getting sleepy, she’d be looking at him and would sometimes break into her silver smile.

Around 8 p.m., the nurses put her in the wagon and he pulled her around the floor, hoping she’d fall asleep. Christmas morning, at 3 a.m., she did.

She wasn’t supposed to turn 5. In May 1998, her fifth birthday was celebrated at the children’s home where she now lived. In December, she was back in the hospital. Again, he stopped by on Christmas Eve before going out. Again, she was restless, and so he pulled her wagon until she fell asleep in the early hours of Christmas Day.

The last time he saw her was December 1999, at a Christmas party. It had been several months. He picked her up; they hugged and spoke, and after a few seconds he put her down. She followed him, smiling her silver smile, but he had to leave and told someone to get her.

His last memory of her was the way she followed him with that limp in her gait.

Her last memory of him was his walking away from her.

She kept living, and through the years he’d receive pictures and updates. Her life became one of extraordinary hardship and struggle.

When he learned that she died on her 25th birthday, he pulled from his notebook pictures of her smiling the night she tasted mashed potatoes and on her fifth birthday.

On December nights, he scans the sky, wondering which star is she.

Courtesy photo Her short hair had been shaved because of lice, and all her teeth were capped with silver, like little silver bells. Now, in the starlight above, her silver smile endures.