Part Three by Henrietta Frankensee ...
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How many times would I have to check before she became real to me?My hands and knees trembled, my body, mind and soul a mass of disharmony, as I retrieved the box with its mystical — and mystifying — contents. I sat down to peek this time, just in case. Stranger things were happening than my doctor knew how to prescribe for.
I lifted the lid, and there she was, as real as anything mystical can be. An iridescent feeling flitted through me, laced ever so lightly with compassion. My breath held in my chest as I observed Her, so like a hummingbird in her uniqueness. No wonder we couldn’t see her amid the glads. No, more like a butterfly, I reconsidered, since she couldn’t fold her wings.
She lay on her side with the wounded wing supported by a cotton ball, her face buried in the upper part of that crumpled appendage. Her gossamer hair lay tousled like the gold thread in my sewing box when the cat got through with it. I wanted to touch it, ever so lightly of course, but even that would terrify Her, of that I was certain.
“Don’t weep,” I whispered. “I’ll do ...” What? My best. But what did that look like?
Hector placed his paws on my forearm to meow in my face.
“No! You can’t have her!” I lifted the box out of reach and scolded again.
He danced a figure eight around my feet, meowing like a fire engine in heavy traffic, and swishing his tail in the air. In his eyes I saw mercy, not menace. It struck me then, Hector could have devoured Her if he’d wanted to, instead of bringing in his treasure to lay at my feet. I reinterpreted his meowing, rightly I was sure, to mean Help. Help Her.
. . . To be continued next Friday.
Thank you, Henrietta!
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