Baby Shoes
Page 18
The little beauty sitting beside me and Charlotte is my only grandchild. Aria was eight when this photo was taken nearly five years ago. I haven’t seen this little lioness in months. Busy teenager stuff, her mother claims. But I can’t help but wonder if Ari has also outgrown her need for me. After all, she’s probably taller than me by now, and well-past the age of appreciating anything I could teach her. And I’d planned to teach her so much. Her times tables. Piano scales. How to tell a barn swallow from a sparrow. The best way to free a fossil from the limestone that lines the river.
Some dreams are best forgotten.
I return to my tea, splurge and add a cube of sugar, then lift the rose-patterned porcelain cup to my lips.
My apple-green bird tilts his head, his beady eyes assessing my brewing storm. I blow steam in his direction. “You won’t leave me, will you, Polygon?”
“C’mere.” He waddles the length of his perch. “Pretty girl.”
I rest the cup on a saucer and stick my finger through the wires and stroke the soft down above his beak. “If only family were as loyal.”
I’d give anything to have my Martin pat my fanny as I wash up the supper dishes. Or have my ambitious Caroline hug my neck after I admire her work. Or have my sweet Charlotte crawl into my lap and beg for another song on the piano.
“Thank you for sticking it out, Polygon.” Through tears, I look my bird in the eye. “Once I send Charlotte’s new hire packing, we’ll have our life back.”
“Be nice.” Polygon gives my finger a peck.
“Traitor.” I recoil at his siding with Charlotte. “This has to be done, Polygon. And, no matter what anyone tries to tell me, I’m still the woman to do it.”
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