Part 8 by Vila Gingerich
My words ruffled the delicate hair and wings of the Her. “Mythical creatures: a figment of who you dream to be. Could that be true?”
Dreams? Bree would raise her eyebrows at the thought. She considered me a dottery grandmother with one sensible shoe in the grave.
Even so, I still had my stash of somedays, my valise of what-ifs, my shoe box of—
Maybe this magical creature, this Her, embodied my fancies of what I could be, could do—submit that story, see Venice, run that marathon.
A rustle came from the box and I leaned closer. Tiny limbs stretched, then straightened, and a wince puckered Her face. No fresh blood welled, though, and I let out the breath I hadn’t know I’d been holding.
With an index finger, I scooted the lid of honey closer.
Her tiny nose twitched. Asking this elegant being to put her face down and drink like a dog seemed preposterous.
“I’m sorry.” My face burned. “I didn’t think. Maybe—”
A hand fluttered out and downward, like a baby moth, and then—a droplet of honey glistened in her palm. She held it to her lips, paused, and the golden head nodded.
At me. For me.
My heart clutched and tears pricked behind my eyelids.
As the Her drank and my knees grew stiff from kneeling, I became aware of voices outside the window.
“What’s wrong with Grandma?” Bree’s voice sounded sharp as glass.
“You noticed too?” Margaret speaking. “She meant to slam the door in our faces earlier. I mean, it’s not like we weren’t invited. Oh, and she forgot my diet. She had nothing but sugar for the Earl Grey.”
“Well, right now she’s in her bedroom, crying into a shoe box,” Bree said.
I glanced over my shoulder and gasped. The bedroom door stood ajar.
Vila is a very good friend at Novel Matters. She won our essay contest on why novels matter in 2012. You can read her essay here. She is currently a humanitarian aid worker in Eastern Romania with her husband. Learn more about Vila here.
Thank you, Vila!