“I can’t pluck a name from thin air," my celestial cryptid says, as we wait for passenger assistance at Peterborough, her alto saxophone voice echoing in the empty space. I nod. I understand. We’ve had this conversation before. She wasn’t sure then either, because choosing is hard, and she remembers the cruel names, the false ones the scientists gave her long ago. “But can I have a birthday?” She asks, her voice scooping octaves in hope.
“Sure you can.” I answer, delighted, surprised. “I’ve got one. Mine’s on St Patrick’s Day. You could have the same, or pick another day.”
“I was thinking the solstice.”
“So next Friday then?” I ask, excited, mind already planning.
“I’d like that!” There’s a pause, as she thinks. “Although I’m not sure how old I am.” The chord turns minor, and I know why. There are several different dates it could be.
“It doesn’t have to be about age” I say quickly. “It could just be a celebration of you. We can make it this weekend, if you like. We are headed on adventure, after all.” I continue. “And there’ll be lots of stories, and music too probably. We can find cake and coffee and cider and listen to old myths, all the things you love.”
“That does sound like fun” That Eb Major chord returns, her favourite, and I know she’s happier. And as passenger assistance arrives, I’m glad she suggested it, for she has done so much for me, its lovely to be able to give back. And why not celebrate her, when she carries wonder in her wake?
No comments:
Post a Comment