The first time we saw him, he seemed strange to us. We worried at his pallid lichen-green countenance, wrapped him in the softest blankets. Coaxed out that shy, strange tree-root twist of a smile. As he grew, we grew to love him. #satsplat #amwriting
Watched his eyes twinkle with starlight as he danced thru the ferns with butterflies, curled up next to the roly-pollies, whispered secrets to the roses. His delicately pointed ears looked like new leaves just unfurled, trembling as he picked out the notes of a melody on guitar.
His laugh grew from a tinkle of tiny, distant bells to a muted but resounding chuckle. And, always, that same little smile, like a sweet pea pod, curled just a little around the edges. We could see that he wasn’t the same as us. But he was our boy and we loved him.
Just as he reached the top of the foothills of boyhood, about to step onto the mountain of growing up altogether, the fairies came. They knocked on our door, and we had to answer. They looked muted, like dried flowers. They had wings, and beautiful clothing, but were not happy.
They sat down in our living room, and over cups of tea, they told us it was time for him to go back. To fairyland, for all changelings must. But we could not let him go. We loved him too much. He stood in the doorway, squeezing my hand, as we waved goodbye to the fairyfolk.
That night, he played his sweetest, warmest tune. The one that spoke of all the memories. Of all the hopes and dreams, and the secrets of the roses. But after he played, gray dust fell off of the strings. He showed us his hands. The smooth fingertips where the prints used to be.
And some days later, translucent wings poked out of his shoulder-blades, folded up like flower buds. Slowly they unfurled, so beautiful. But sad, reminding us of another place that he really belonged to. He began to wander more. Would flutter off. Get lost, in our little woods.
Like a moth forgetting everything but the flame, he would forget where he was going and why, and if he should return. But worst of all, the glow of kisses on his cheeks and the glitter where we’d lovingly tousled his hair, began to fade. “I’m afraid I will forget,” he told us.
“I think I have to go,” he said somberly, over his bowl of cereal, at the breakfast table. We nodded. I sipped orange juice, and my partner shuffled the paper. Tears blurred our eyesight, but they would not fall. That night, he packed up everything he needed, to remember.
And when he opened the front door the next morning, the fairies were there. Waiting. Like they knew. We gave him the warmest hugs we had. As I brushed his cheek gently with my hand, a kiss fell, landing softly in my palm like a tiny butterfly. He smiled that little smile.
“Goodbye.” And then the tears fell. Hot as tea, salty as the ocean. Stinging my eyes. Staining my cheeks with sadness. Falling to the mossy earth. And that is when these roses grew. The ones that smell like the mornings of every summer, mixed with dancing ferns and sunlight.
The roses that bloom bigger under a full moon, their perfume billowing out in ribbons along the breeze. The ones that the butterflies love the most. If I close my eyes, and listen closely, I can still hear the music.
@threadreaderapp unroll
