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,