Tuni Deignan

It was about the same size as a steering wheel, but rectangular. It was the primary colors’ blend of yellow and red: the perfect pumpkin orange; my privately cherished favorite color. It was silk. I weaved it through the four of my fingers on my right hand and pulled the final stretch of fabric with loving intent around the base of my thumb. A two-inch tail remained - its corner.

As my right thumb made its way to my mouth, the silky fabric’s end landed atop my little-girl avian nose, where my index finger stroked and circled, hooking the bridge while soothing the silent muse inside me. Some parts of the scarf became frayed and I would have to un-catch a finger from time to time so my stroke could resume its rhythm.

My safehouse, heart protector, fear- net; stayed in my hand, my pocket, my bedding or upon my nose, until I turned five, when she pulled it from my grief-stricken clutch, her verdict having just landed. I ran after her, down the Persian carpeted steps into our home’s basement.

She ignored my high-pitched cries; my desperate loss of security. She lifted the lid of the tall gas incinerator and let the flames flick and snatch up the delicate memories and hard sought salvations; I saw it briefly suspended and then smoke.