Lock up the tweeds and pea coats less they be attacked in this Magpie Tale
Cotton tail. Cotton head. A wimple the color of snow.
We had adjusted our household to deal with her eternal hunger for lanolin and light. Drawn to flames, a light addiction that weighed heavy on our family.
Closets free of woolens. Wool, that word we dared not whisper, and we could count only pigs and goats in our sleep for fear of our dreams being sucked from our brains.
Mother’s dollops of judgment scattered any conversation as she blamed this obsession on her. It was always clearly her fault, her lack of discipline that had led to this odd metamorphic state. A winged child that was trapped in a room only to lust for flame and light, all ambitions for flying clipped.
Limp wings quavering in the burnished autumn light that she had looked at for so long she could no longer distinguish shadows, only the shards of light and anger that always pointed back to her.