If The Fates Allow
Margaret Locke (margaretlocke.com or @Margaret_Locke)
Furby gone bad, they called me. I don’t blame them. I mean, look at me. Weird fringe all over, who-knows-what-they-are balls for a nose, and this sparkly purple tail hanging low.
I’m no dragon. I’m a travesty.
And I love it. Because the girl decorated me herself, her delicate fingers placing each bit of fluff and ornamentation.
“Isn’t he boo-ti-fow, mama?”
The mother had nodded, her sad eyes betraying the smile on her face.
“I’m gonna wave him in da parade! And this one on da uver hand!”
“And the third?” the father’d said, chuckling.
“On my head!”
I hadn’t seen her after that. Something about white blood cell counts and immune systems and grandparents flying in.
The father abandoned us here today. “Keeping a promise,” he’d whispered. “She didn’t make it. But you did. You’re here.”
My mouth falls open.
How could he leave me, too? Life isn’t supposed to be like this.
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