How to fly with broken wings

I always wanted a fairy for my garden.  No, not a living breathing pixie, (mostly because they are impossible to catch) but one of those sculptures that add some whimsy to an otherwise ordinary collection of grass and shrubs.  Garden sculptures are pricey,  so it’s not the thing that one simply just picks up while checking out… bananas, toothpaste, mythical creature…

Yesterday I went to a garden store with my husband where I saw the most perfect fairy.  She was everything I wanted in a garden diva, beautiful wings, pouty lips, and an awesome skirt made out of leaves.  I felt like she was my alter ego, the fantasy that I wanted to be, forever frozen, happy to be admired with her all knowing expression and sit buried in the protection of nature.  I loved her.  Well, I loved her as much as one can love a piece of fiberglass painted to look like stone.

As an early Mother’s Day gift, hubby offered to buy her.  Overjoyed, I carried her to the register in my arms like a baby.  People stopped to admire my prize, and I told them she was the last one, making her even more desirable in their eyes.

She sat in the back seat of our SUV, and I pondered where exactly to put her.  She needed some special place where everyone would stop and give her the homage she was designed for.  I found her to be so pretty, that I planned on drawing her later… perhaps even writing a story about her.  Do I sound obsessed?  We writers find our muses in the most unlikely of places… just go with it.

It was my husband who carried her this time, from the car to the back yard, and walking across the cement patio, just inches away from the safety of the garden was when the nightmare occurred.  She slipped out of his hands, hit the pavement, and SHATTERED.

My jaw dropped.  My heart hurt.  My precious fairy, my tiny twisted fantasy of future tales and adventure lay in pieces on the ground.  Half of her face peered up at me, the pouty lips now split in half.  Her wings were in three pieces, and at my feet.  How could she ever fly, now that her wings were broken?

Her hand had broken at the wrist, and it lay there, silently asking for help.  There must have been over a hundred pieces, crumbs and dust.  The memory of a once beautiful object.

There was only one thing left to do.  I went inside and got the glue.

I sat there silently with my husband as we tried to piece her back together like a puzzle.  I was making progress on her head when I held her too tight and broke her neck.  Sadly, I walked away.

But my husband stayed. Head down, glue in hand.

A few hours later, she was resurrected.  She now has battle scars.  Deep cuts carved around her body, her face cracked and determined.  She now has a story to tell.  Of how much she was loved, and how much my husband loves me.  I see her as a symbol of overcoming the impossible and believing that although things may seem dark and bleak, there is always hope.  Together we can heal the wounds around us.

All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust.

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