Photo by Angie Shenouda
when i was 7 my dad brought home a little blue friend who floated inside a cup no bigger than my palm. he was angelic, a wave of delicate indigo dancing around his body. he hovered, eyes dull, the once colorful world warped and blurry behind a thin glass film. some days i tried to hold him- as friends do- but he slipped away between my fingers, a silky beautiful anger, thrashing in circles searching for somewhere else. there was nowhere else. one day they put his home on the windowsill in the kitchen where i couldn’t reach, or even see, and that was the last i was aware of his existence for some time.
i’d say i’m sorry if i could.