.
Looking out from my study, the day is thick with clouds; smoke-charcoal, fast-flying, and liquid. It’s hard to write something beautiful on such a day.
Without warning, there’s a tapping on my study window.
I push open the patio doors. “Lori…what a day to be visiting!” The child’s rain-shined face is surrounded by transparent rainproof fabric.
“The gate was open, Mr. Harry. I guess you were hoping I’d come?” She says, kicking off green rain boots, on the front of which frog’s eyes are popping. “I hope I’m not a nuisance, Mr. Harry?”
“Not at all, Lori.”
“This is a nice room,” she says, looking around at the bookshelves, the prints on the wall. Pictures of hares pulling a sled. Elves having a picnic in the wood. Photos of my children and mementos from far and wide that document my travels. But Lori stares longest at a picture of the Divinity.
“Do you come in here a lot, Mr. Harry?”
“Most every day,” I answer, pulling the piano stool in her direction.
“Sit here, child.”
“Mr. Harry, do you think I am ugly?”
The frankness of her question hit me like a stone aimed at the heart, coming from a slingshot. I remembered back to my childhood, coming home in the evenings. I had…
