“Let’s not say anything about fireworks to Mossy.” Grandma arches a brow as she carries a platter overflowing with red, white, and blue striped donuts to the front door. “I would hate for anyone to lose a finger today—or a talon.”
An emerald blur shoots through the open window, warbling a made-up song…
“This is not what a raspberry donut should look like.” Maroon batter oozes all over my flour-dusted fingers and plops onto the kitchen floor. I grimace. “At least, not Grandma’s. Hers are perfection.”
Mossy’s tiny dragon wings shudder as he scratches at the deep pink goo clinging to his snout. He yelps and steps
April 27, 1986
The comforting notes of Babushka’s music box make my heart shatter.
What would she have thought, standing in her granddaughter’s shoes, watching the sky morph as radiation pours into the air? Even in the pain, I imagine she would’ve known what to do. How to help. How to make a difference.
Recent Comments