Tink ogled down at me from her perch high on the shelf, her legs folded neatly under her as she settled in among the dust. Her glassy eyes were expressionless; her wings bent and gathered into a thin line behind her back. There was no smile playing upon her lips.
I sighed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you knew this day was coming,” I said, staring unto her motionless frame. “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.”
Tinker Bell said nothing.
I ignored the way her gaze emptied into the room. It was something that in the past I’d learned to overlook—the way one minute she looked at you as if you were the only person for miles, and the next, without the blink of an eye, something in her baby blues shifted and she was taking in everything around her—but today seemed particularly disconcerting. A mix of guilt and sorrow ebbed behind my heart, and for the first time the dainty scrutiny of the delicate fairy pressed on me like a lead weight.
After another moment of passing silence I turned my back on her, taking in a deep breath of stale air. The room had the smell of a closed in, cramped space that hadn’t seen fresh air in years—overwhelmed with the earthy tang of cardboard boxes stacked into corners and accented by the smell of disuse from the dust motes hovering in the air. Another pang of sadness plucked in the back of my mind—what had once been a well-lived, well-loved place now was the shell of its former self.
The only things that remained were the stripped twin mattress, a lonely bedside table, and eighteen years worth of memories about to be left behind.
“It’s time to go,” I mumbled, more to myself than to the girl still sitting silently upon the vacant shelf. I turned to her. “It’s time to come down from there.”
Tink went unresisting as I scooped her up in my hands, cupping her fragile frame gently in my grasp. Her eyes gleamed—tears, I imagined it to be—as I set her down on a stack of newspaper and bubble wrap, frozen as I reached for the tape gun.
The glass figurine let out not a sound as I wrapped her up and lowered her into one of the cardboard boxes pushed into a pile against the doorway, snuggling her in next to photos—ones of my mom, my dad, myself in the various stages of my life that stretched from diapers into the more recent graduation cap and gown. My fingers lingered on them for only a moment. In the next I was forcing myself to shut the flaps of the box, letting darkness descend on my childhood. Tape sealed the deal.
I scribbled ‘COLLEGE’ on the outside just as a voice called from the bottom of the stairs, “Wendy, are you ready to go?”
I was.
I sighed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you knew this day was coming,” I said, staring unto her motionless frame. “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.”
Tinker Bell said nothing.
I ignored the way her gaze emptied into the room. It was something that in the past I’d learned to overlook—the way one minute she looked at you as if you were the only person for miles, and the next, without the blink of an eye, something in her baby blues shifted and she was taking in everything around her—but today seemed particularly disconcerting. A mix of guilt and sorrow ebbed behind my heart, and for the first time the dainty scrutiny of the delicate fairy pressed on me like a lead weight.
After another moment of passing silence I turned my back on her, taking in a deep breath of stale air. The room had the smell of a closed in, cramped space that hadn’t seen fresh air in years—overwhelmed with the earthy tang of cardboard boxes stacked into corners and accented by the smell of disuse from the dust motes hovering in the air. Another pang of sadness plucked in the back of my mind—what had once been a well-lived, well-loved place now was the shell of its former self.
The only things that remained were the stripped twin mattress, a lonely bedside table, and eighteen years worth of memories about to be left behind.
“It’s time to go,” I mumbled, more to myself than to the girl still sitting silently upon the vacant shelf. I turned to her. “It’s time to come down from there.”
Tink went unresisting as I scooped her up in my hands, cupping her fragile frame gently in my grasp. Her eyes gleamed—tears, I imagined it to be—as I set her down on a stack of newspaper and bubble wrap, frozen as I reached for the tape gun.
The glass figurine let out not a sound as I wrapped her up and lowered her into one of the cardboard boxes pushed into a pile against the doorway, snuggling her in next to photos—ones of my mom, my dad, myself in the various stages of my life that stretched from diapers into the more recent graduation cap and gown. My fingers lingered on them for only a moment. In the next I was forcing myself to shut the flaps of the box, letting darkness descend on my childhood. Tape sealed the deal.
I scribbled ‘COLLEGE’ on the outside just as a voice called from the bottom of the stairs, “Wendy, are you ready to go?”
I was.
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