Monday, February 7, 2011


The lights are out, the heat turned down and I climb into bed, Nora asleep in her room.  An hour later, she walks in with half-opened eyes, her hands cupped in front of her:

"This could help," she says as she holds her hands the shape of small pink birds toward me.

"Oh, thank you."  I hold my hands out, a bowl for the birds to land within.

She lets it go there, something only she can see, something she has named in her sleep, the solution to some problem.  And I hold it as tightly as a rope, as reigns, as a pen, the onion thin page, love.

I lift her into bed beside me.  Under her pillow:  a note to the tooth fairy:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Please can I have my tooth back?  But can I also keep the present you brought me?

Love, Dear Tooth Fairy,

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