by Susan Quinn
The spaceship crashed into the mega lizard and spewed tiny multicolored detritus across the carpet. Sounds of mayhem splashed around the wreckage as tiny fingers collected the pieces. A high pitched whisper pulled my flashed look down, but it was only the demise of another plastic villain.
Three boys piled on top of each other, grappling and grinning as they wrestled for the prized magic wand. A squeal escaped them. Would a sister scowl at them from across the room? Or clamber with small but determined hands and feet to the top and decry herself, Victor! But there was no pink flash in the pile or haughty bouncing curls, only boyish voices and happy grunts.
We curled up for the last book of the day, the end of a stream of brightly colored tales of trucks and dragons. His slender fingers and unpolished nails held fast to the page, lest I turn it too quickly. Short bristly hair brushed my arm. A vision of tendrils floated up to tickle my nose.
The bustle drained from the day and filled the night with quiet forms in car shaped beds. I ran my finger along the endless circle dangling from my chain, stubbled with three small heads and reaching arms. Complete. Full. And encircling an empty space that held whispers of girlish dreams.