I picture little Nee fluttering about, dancing the giddy swirls she danced whenever I lifted the lid on her box. Picture her nudging against me, nuzzling my neck, remembering all the times I gave her a belly rub. Unfolded her delicate pleats. Flattened her. Read her. Need. My throat thickens so much I’m forced to swallow. I always thought that little parchment lark came to me by accident, but maybe she wasn’t lost at all. Maybe she was exactly where she needed to be . . .
