A Kiss Full of Fairy Dust
A bureau is in the corner. A wooden box sits there, its polished surface gleaming in the candle-light. A girl of about sixteen sits on a bed across the room. She has been crying, and her face droops like a wilting flower. A few tears still dangle from her nose and chin. She stands abruptly, and walks to the bureau, staring a moment into empty space, a finger absently tracing the carvings of flowers and ivy that decorate the edges of the box. A lonesome tear falls from her left eye, and splashes, making a little puddle. The girl opens the top bureau drawer, rummages beneath some handkerchiefs, pulls out a key, unlocks the box, and lifts its lid. A voice calls from below.
"Wendy, close the window, there's a draft coming on."
The box snaps shut.
"Yes, Mother."
She closes the window, returns to the bureau, and again opens the box. There is a silver thimble inside. A coat of faintly shimmering dust covers the bottom of the box.
"Don't forget to take your medicine, Peter."
"Yes, Mother. Wait—Wendy…" Peter stood, then got to his knees, searching beneath his chair for something. "Wait." He stood, holding a thimble. It was the one I had given him. Reaching underneath one of the Lost Boy's beds, he scooped some dust into the thimble.
"Here, Wendy, a kiss full of fairy dust. Now you can fly whenever you wish." Peter is the sweetest boy.
"Oh, thank you Peter, it's the most wonderful present! I shall come back and visit you someday."
"Ah, the cleverness of me!" He is also vain. I clenched the thimble carefully and hadn't let go until I arrived home in London, and locked it safely away.
Now I gaze at the thimble—and the fairy dust. I could leave now. I could open the window and fly away forever. Back to Neverland, and pirate ships, and Indians…and Peter. I will never grow up. I don't want to grow up. I don't want to get married to a stuffy old banker. How stupid do adults expect me to be? I will NEVER fall in love with (much less marry) a BORING someone who doesn't give a pinch if I care. It's almost too much to bear. Almost. I can leave England, and the whole world with its pack of troubles behind her. After all, I can return whenever I want to, can't I? But poor mother. She would be heartbroken. A lump jumps into my throat. I can't leave. What would the boys do without her stories? And father. He would be a nervous wreck. I don't want to think about it…but I have to. A long sigh escaped me. I shut the box, turning the key. Another time perhaps.
THE END
(maybe)