“I found this box in your closet. Personal?” Amy asked. Mom smiled and said, “Your first tooth, your first scribble and a leaf you picked.”
Each day memories were missing. None were recovered. He penned his wishes before they, too, vanished. The thief was known; but never caught.
If one of them had been a frog the consequences might have been huge. But they were just teenagers who didn’t know how to kiss. Yet.
Her family gathered, but by then she could no longer speak; just gazed at them with hungry eyes. She died in the night with no one watching.
The neighbor girl isn’t eating again. She tapes quarters to her belt to tip the scale and satisfy her stern mother—she thinks of everything.
“…enchanted castles, flying faeries & knights in shining armor.” Mother closed the book. “But take all of that with a grain of salt.”