I am no longer a girl in a flannel button-down. I am a beast, hunting for my prey, she growls as she crawls over the threshold to the kitchen. She prowls towards the plate of bacon, saliva dripping, and snatches a piece from the unwary cook, dragging it back to the table to consume in her mighty jaws, without the use of utensil or paw. She hisses when I approach, looking for a crumb.
This isn't the first time this kind of transformation has occurred. Maybe it's March Madness of the animal variety. We were simply walking down the bike path, eager to see the masses of starlings and black birds roosting in the tops of the sycamores by the river. Their bursts of flight are breath-taking, and the silence that comes before take-off is as deafening as the chatter moments before.
Then suddenly my child was herself flying: a large, crane-like creature leading the way through the evening.
I'm looking at you from the side, 'cause that's where my eyes are.
She's a little skittish, but beckons me with each stop.
As the story unfolds, I realize that she is my long-lost daughter, become bird one full-moon night, now able to unzip her cloak of feathers to return to our home.
So very ten. I thought I'd mourn the passing of seven forever, but seven is still in there somewhere. She reminds me that her parallel number is just around the corner. How I love these days.