Preston & Willa
We passed through a hall devoted to flight.
Willa pointed to an airplane model and asked whether I remembered how we met.
I told her I remembered everything about that afternoon that mattered: the backpack, the rabbit, her insistence that she was four and three quarters, and the drawing with an empty place beside her mother.
“I still have the drawing,” I said.
“I know.
It’s in your office.”
“Would you like to make a new one?”
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