Little Fairy.

What do I have in common with a person who collects kitten cadavers in formaldehyde?” – rang angrily in my head, my indignation straining to conceal the self-conscious realization that I truly WASN’T nearly as magical, or compellingly unordinary, or out of place, as the girl kneeling in front of me. “One who treats her guests with cricket bars, and walks barefoot around town, and makes friends with pot-smoking clowns? For what ungodly reason do I want to maintain any connection to her? And why do I find myself under her bed every night, listening, mesmerized, to her odd stories?”

I remember walking into her room for the first time. Unintentionally – she caught me in the hallway by surprise. I followed two other visitors under a canopy of dry branches. What did I feel, looking at her specimens? Pity? Concern? Amusement? Unsuspecting curiosity? Some indiscernible, incipient sympathy? I wonder. She was the Peter Pan of her Neverland, touring us through her meticulously created universe – a dollhouse, a glass ball model of the outside world. Down the hall was Kasey, the safety of the familiar room. I lingered behind, my attention snatching at every new object. She gave us fresh guavas and persimmons from a string-bag tied to her bedpost – a present from “a senior who’s soft on her.” I didn’t want to leave her side – she was surreal, an air of careless childhood fantasy about her. Yet she ended her tour and retrieved into her room, leaving me to drown in visions for the rest of the night.

Falling into a sea of dandelions.

If you ever fall off a cliff – that common nightmare – it is always better to fall into a bed of scintillating white dandelions, sending millions of parachutes up into the sky. She drew it for me on a scrap of paper. Little fairy. Creating universes upon request.