Giggling from our hiding place deep within your garden, we used to wait for you to appear. I never saw you, not once, but laying under your prized hydrangea bushes, she whispers to me your story. How you are prince of the faeries, banished here for starting a revolt. She points out the goblins that watch from your upstairs window, and sprinkles bits of crackers on your doorstep for the pixies to enjoy. It is the end of summer, almost fall. But the snapdragons have not yet died. The sunflowers’ ruminative faces bend to lend us shelter. My old husky waits two driveways down for me to return. She declares me a prisoner in the troll war, and binds long strips of monkey grass around my wrists and ankles. I collect flower petals in one of my mother’s old china teacups, then bury it deep under the roots of your dead azaleas. I fall asleep next to her, cradled in the garden’s womb. I hold you in my mind. Later, the next spring, each of your azalea buds open to reveal a single baby tooth.

Reese Alexander (she/her) is a senior studying English and creative writing at Barnard. Her stories have been published in Quarto, Echoes, Flash Fiction Magazine, Five on the Fifth, Literally Stories, and Trinity College Dublin's The Attic. She may be reached via carrier pigeon or tin can. She can be found on Instagram @erinreesealex.