The bold navy stripes on his pajamas looked more like sea waves when he crawled under and around the tables and chairs, blankets and sheets we’d assembled into a bedtime fort. He bumped and knocked over my Moira doll sitting perfectly in her high chair.
“Slow, please slow, brother.”
His loud grin told me exactly what he was thinking but I hoped for once he would speak. But he never spoke. My quiet, curious boy.
She kept it quietly in the old brown trunk hidden in the room made only of wood. Had she known it would blend in so well she wouldn’t be able to see it later, she may have kept it in the garden. Slightly after midnight, the badger who helped her months ago find the trunk told her that this was not an ordinary trunk. It would not keep her delicate heart, her rose petal pages, her bottles of tears and honey.
To all my lovely brunettes out there...
"Sometimes I wish I were blond, with thistle down hair that floats on the breeze and wispy brows, and lashes that are barely there. There is something so fragile about pale skin, pale hair, lilac unicorns made in to girls against their will.
Then I remember all the brave, proud brunettes. I remember Wendy and Dorothy and Sara and dearest Lucy and I tie my braids like a badge of honour. For we are the fierce, clever, plucky little maidens who save lost boys and open wardrobe doors and remember, in our dreams, how to fly."