Piglet

by Lottie Hazell

the statue bones of her father, his straight back and his surety driving him forward, pulling her in his wake. Did he know, more so than she, what was best for her, what she wanted? They had never walked like this before: so slowly, side by side, as if sewn along the seams of their clothing. His pride was hot as it radiated from his skin. What purpose he must feel as he led her onwards, downwards.