It was magic.
It's always been about magic.
My womb grew but a few months, but a few times, and by the wake of Spring and the dawn of Fall, two darling girls appeared.
Since infancy I made them believe in angels and that I was to be their first. I would vow to protect them. Promise to love them and my wings would be shelter in the sunlight and wind.
I walked them around the backyard. Pointed out each buzzing bee and butterfly wing. I made them believe in earth and all its promise of birth and life.
Every dandelion would be chance to a wish. Every ladybug would grant good luck. And beneath each and every mushroom lived a fairy.
I made them believe in fairies.
We'd walk paths through a forest, slipping in and out of trees, searching for wings. Searching for a whisper, a hush, and a sprinkle of twinkly dust.
As they grew I told them about Santa. The Easter Bunny. The fairy that would collect their first teeth.
We looked for lights in the dark sky. I made them believe each one a sleigh guided by reindeer.
We left a carrot and by morning it had been replaced with a basket of treats and a hunt for treasures.
I made them believe in fairies.
Still growing I made them believe in me and their daddy. That our magic, our destiny would be to guide them, walk beside them, and sometimes behind them to make their little girl dreams come true.
I told them about God. And his angels. And made them believe that when they reached a bridge and a mean and selfish troll commanded they turn back, they could believe that He would be there inside them and help them across.
I made them believe in fairies.
Those two darling girls are eight and ten. That magic is still alive.
We make wishes on eyelashes and falling stars. We leave cookies and milk and notes beside the tree. Our hands still wake to pennies under a pillow and we take care of where we step on the forest ground.
I made them believe in fairies. So someday they could fly without wings.
