Note to Self: Becoming a Woman
A case for believing in fairies past the age of nine
I love nights like this one. When nightfall starts around 9 p.m., it’s summer, and heat wraps around you with wide arms, motherly. The grass grows thick and winding, and the earth below seems to breathe full breaths—expanding and contracting under each step.
It’s been so cold for six months prior, and like the hairs on my skin, the earth recoils and folds into itself to preserve heat, but now it's crawling—unfurling, with new growth. Rain lingers on blades of grass like drops of sweat or pearls. It’s getting harder for me to see in front of me. My eyes take their time to adjust to the diminishing light. It’s a new moon — meaning pitch dark, except for the flickering lights of fireflies and the few early stars in the sky.
I believed in fairies as a kid because of fireflies. The faint scent of lilacs and a jasmine vine in my backyard. If something so beautiful could illuminate a spring night, if something could smell this good, if the forest’s eyes could come alive with a million lights, then surely (in my six-year-old logic) fairies must exist.
I, the fairy contractor, acquired little wooden beams, shovels, and tiny mortar bags every February at Alasitas, a yearly fair in La Paz that miniaturized everything you can think of. I…
