notes – yes, I think I'm in a Disney mood now; expect another PeterWendy soon.
square root of variance
Peter experiences the nursery through its phases.
He watches a dresser replace the box of toys, sees lipstick rolling across the floor rather than the familiar rubber ball. The coil of skipping rope is stored in the dusty attic to make way for a rug of bright woollen flowers and cashmere grass. Old clothes leave the closet to make way for lacey dresses and modest skirts and blouses that make him blink his eyes in surprise. When he lands upon the Darling's home with Tinkerbell flanking his shoulder, to see a familiar friend and only to find another change – there is an unmistakable urge to swoop into the always-open window and tell Wendy to stop growing up.
But the boy never does, he never gets the courage to invade the sacred room, and whenever he hears the light tapping of her graceful footsteps, he hovers away – something in him too afraid to see Wendy's face.
Despite that, Peter returns to the rooftop every other week, knowing that the sixteenth roof tile is loose and where the rivers of rain travel when they hit the English house. Time – he doesn't understand this bewildering concept, and neither does Tink – seems to be a villain as dastardly as Hook himself. For every time Peter arrives under the guise of the grey evening clouds, he feels a tingling sensation snake around his chest, like he has missed too many nights. The sole saving thought is that Wendy's voice doesn't exactly change, always retaining that confident pitch and refined tone. It reminds him fondly of jealous mermaids and tiny, adorable Indian girls.
Wendy reads to herself when she is bored, and her favourite spot to do so is by the side of the window. Peter mounts himself just above said window, blanketed by the night, placing his chin upon his knuckles just to hear her paint artistic pictures in his head. And sometimes, in his dreams, he thinks that perhaps she is reading a bedtime story to him.
He perches on the chimney and sees John in his changed state, sometimes Michael –tall and hardened and different in every possible way, reminding him why he will never grow up. Once a week they leave the doorstep with bouquets of flowers in their hands, big proud smiles spread across their matured faces – and he wonders where they are off to. When he slips closer to the open window of the nursery, he overhears Wendy as she flips the antique pages of the newest book off her father's shelf. He listens to the note of her dreary sigh, the rocking chair she occupies creaking in soft agreement. He remembers that sound, remembers it like he heard it only yesterday – and he figures that she must be feeling rather alone. Wendy has never been good with pretending not to feel lonely – she was such a little girl in that respect, even after so long.
Perhaps… she has not changed too much.
One night Wendy finds an honest daisy on the windowsill, in between the leaves of her book.