Painting Lessons for Fairies

It was late fall when I found the fairy tangled up in Grover’s fur after our morning walk through the woods.

It wasn’t uncommon to find leaves, small twigs and burrs snarled and snagged in the German Shepherd’s bushy coat after every walk. The thick fur was practically a magnet for forest debris, and it didn’t help that Grover had to bound through the densest part of the forest without hesitation. He always came when I called, but all it took was a second in the brush and Grover was soon carrying half the forest in his fur home.

Every morning walk ended up with a morning brush on the back porch. I would fix up a cup of tea and grab Grover’s various brushes and combs, before heading to the porch that overlooked the woods. Even in the dead of winter I’m still brushing Grover outside, pulling out clouds of loose golden-brown and black fur that would drift across the yard and into the woods. I liked to think that birds and other animals would use the fur for their nests.

Grover yelped and whined as I tugged on a stubborn snarl right at his nape. “Sorry puppy,” I murmured as I tried to pull the burr out. “But if you—shit!”

Something sharp and hot stung my finger and I yanked my hand back, a drop of blood welling up at the fingertip. Grover whined and slicked his ears back flat against his head. “Shhh, puppy, it’s not you. Just another fucking burr.” Grover licked my hand and laid back down as I carefully shifted through the thick ruff at his neck, trying to find the offending and painful burr tangled up there.

Instead it was a fairy.

A small and very angry-looking fairy with tiny wings and little hands raised menacingly at her. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them. The fairy was still there, glaring at me with tiny black eyes, it’s small thorny body practically vibrating with anger. I was astonished, not so much at the fairy itself but more so the appearance. I had always seen fairies as cute little people with butterfly wings and dresses of spun sugar. This one was made up of brown bristles and sharp, painful-looking angles. Like a tiny thistle given wings and a face.

I opened my mouth, closed it, and the fairy continued to glare at me while Grover started to whine at my feet. He lifted his long nose closer, trying to sniff at the fairy in my hands. The fairy hissed and swiped at him, and Grover immediately yelped as if he had been shot.

“Hey! Don’t do that!” I put the fairy down on the end table covered in dog brushes and loose fur.

Grover came cringing back over so I could look at him. A bright red bead of blood had welled up on his black nose, but I couldn’t find any other injuries. One of the long, ebony thorns sticking out of the fairy’s joints had probably nicked him. I kissed the top of his head, wiping the blood away with my thumb as I soothed him. Not that he was hurting, Grover was more startled then anything, he was a stoic dog who would normally ignore pain.

I turned around, half-hoping to find nothing but grooming supplies on the table, but the fairy was still there. The triangular face was tiny, but I thought she could make out an expression of surprise. The fairy pointed at Grover, raising it’s hands as if in question and tilting it’s head, wings shivering rapidly.

“You hurt him, it wasn’t nice.” I said, nearly laughing when the fairy made an elaborate show of shying away from Grover in fear. “He’s a big baby and wouldn’t hurt a fly, he doesn’t even go after rabbits or squirrels. The only things that need to fear him are balls and sticks.”

The fairy put it’s, (maybe it was female, the features were kinda feminine), her hands on her hips and stuck out a tiny, astonishingly red tongue at Grover. Grover was oblivious, which made me wonder how many fairies he had seen before, the dog panting up at me with an expression that clearly said he was done with the fairy and ready for breakfast.

“Okay baby, time to eat.” I smiled as Grover went into spasms of joy, spinning around and dancing at my feet as I gathered up the brushes and her tea mug.

The fairy watched me intently, showing no sign of leaving, and I wondered if maybe one of her wings were damaged. She seemed fine, but I couldn’t really consider myself an expert on fairy health. I went inside to put away the brushes, setting the kettle back on the stove to warm up more water for tea, and preparing Grover’s breakfast. As he inhaled his food as if he hadn’t eaten in years, I went back to the porch to check on the fairy. She was still there.

This isn’t real, I thought, but it was as the fairy looked up at her. Well, when I was little I had always wanted to have tea parties with fairies. Now was my chance, as impossible as it seemed.

“Would you like to come inside?” The fairy stared up at me then eyed the open door with a clear look of distrust. “I can leave the door open, I just thought…maybe you would like some tea?”

The fairy paused, then swooped into the house faster than then I had expected. No injuries then. Inside the kettle was starting to gurgle as the water heated up and Grover was watching the fairy intently as she carefully navigated the labyrinth of sketch books, twisted up paint tubes, and various jars filled with dirty paint water. I tend to work out of my kitchen, it was the room with the most windows and best light, plus it was easier to get a cup of tea when I needed it mid-painting. Several canvases stood by the window with paintings in differing degrees of completion. The fairy fluttered up to one painting, a portrait of a woman with flowers for hair all done in bright, chaotic splashes of color.

“That’s what I do for a living, I paint,” I said when she turned to me and gestured adamantly at the paintings. “I made them.”

I was close enough to see her tiny black eyes widen, a small smile on her face. While the kettle heated up, she investigated each and every painting, carefully hovering in front of them, moving closer and then back, reminding me so much of the people I would watch at gallery showings who did the same thing. Granted they didn’t fly. The kettle started to whistle and I dumped out the now lukewarm water in my mug, added a fresh tea bag, and filled it up. Thin ribbons of fragrant steam began to float up immediately, lavender and honey, one of my favorites.

I picked another lavender and honey teabag, maybe the fairy would like this one too, and tried to find something small enough to give her. I had to use an old shot glass, a faded logo from some sort of tropical resort on the side with palm trees and a smiling dolphin. The teabag was a little too big, so I just poured in the hot water over it and let it steep for a couple minutes before pulling the bag out. There was a small clear space on the table, I set down the shot glass and my mug, and then on a whim grabbed the sugar bowl with a spoon and the honey.

“Here yah go,” I pushed the shot glass toward the fairy as she fluttered back down to the table, it was about the same size as her. “I know it’s a little big, but I don’t really have any fairy-sized dishes.”

The fairy hesitantly sniffed at the steam rising from the glass. Did fairies even like tea? Were they allergic to certain kinds? I wanted to laugh, I had a fairy on my table with a shot glass full of tea and now I was imagining fairies with tiny fairy epi-pens. Grover lounged at my feet, staring up at the table with a sad, forlorn look on his face, probably upset that the fairy was allowed on the table but not him.

I lifted up the ceramic lid from the sugar bowl and pushed it close to the fairy. “Here’s some sugar, I think fairies like sugar, right?”

Her wings were slowly fanning open and close, sending the steam from her glass in tiny swirls across the table. Despite her thorny appearance, her wings were rather pretty. Between the sharp, barbed edges of ebony and brown they were all lacy and green, glowing with threads of gold, like proper fairy wings. She fluttered to the bowl and immediately plunged both hands into the sugar, pulling out handfuls to eat. Well, that answered one question about fairy diets.

I sipped at my tea, still a little too hot. “Do you have a name?” I almost laughed at the enraged expression on the fairy’s face. “It doesn’t have to be a real name, just something to call you.”

The fairy seemed to ponder the question as I stirred in a little bit of honey into my mug. I nearly dropped my spoon when the sugar bowl neatly tipped itself over, spilling out a flood of white, sticky granules around the fairy’s feet. The sugar continued to move, swirling slowly across the table and settling itself into shapes, letters right in front of my eyes.

give ME namE

“You sure?” I asked, and the fairy nodded. “How about…Thistle?”

The fairy gave a small bow. THIsTLe

I swallowed hard. “Okay, Thistle. Would you like some honey with your tea? It’s made from clover flowers.”

Thistle nodded, and I poured honey into the shot glass, nearly dropping the bottle when the sugar spoon floated lazily toward the glass and began to delicately stir the tea. Fairies and now fairy magic; I should be laughing, screaming, or checking myself into the mental hospital, but instead I was serving tea. To bad I didn’t have any scones, but there was some Oreos in the cupboard.

I pulled out the bag of Oreos and set some out on a small plate. “I don’t have any scones or fancy tea cakes, but Oreos are pretty good. These are the double chocolate ones.”

Three Oreos rolled off the plate toward Thistle. She ended up stacking two and sitting on it, while nibbling on the third. She didn’t seem interested in drinking the tea, but certainly enjoyed the fragrance of it, leaning close to inhale deeply between bites. I half wondered if chocolate was bad for fairies, but maybe she would be okay. Grover had stolen Oreos before and was fine, even now he was sighing softly at my feet, as if reminding me that he wouldn’t mind an Oreo or two.

Thistle ate half an Oreo while I finished my tea, then scooped up a couple handfuls of sugar and flitted out the door. When I went to the porch she was gone, and I almost wanted to believe that this had been some sort of fever dream bought on by not enough sleep. But the shot glass of tea was still on the table, half an Oreo with tiny bite marks next to it, and the sugar words still there forming her name. Thistle.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked Grover as I picked up the half-eaten Oreo and tossed it to him.

Grover snapped it out of midair, chewing frantically before huffing at me as he nosed my hands for more treats. Maybe I was crazy, but at least Grover didn’t care. Maybe it had been a rather vivid and elaborate hallucination, maybe I gone to the effort of writing those words in sugar. Fairies weren’t real. Still, when I went to lock up the door that night, there was a small flower on the porch, it’s tiny star-shaped petals a deep indigo color with tiny tips of gold. It was real, smelling of spring and sunshine while outside the trees were skeletons and the last autumn leaves were dried corpses.



The next morning, Thistle was back. She was sitting on the small porch table, waiting for me when I got back from Grover’s morning walk. She waited patiently while I brushed out his fur and then followed us inside as if this was now a normal thing. Morning tea with fairies.

“Are there…are there more fairies like you in the woods?” I asked as I filled another shot glass of tea, this time going with a light jasmine and white tea blend.

maNy

Thistle didn’t even look at the sugar as the words formed, she was examining a new painting I had started, one that was just a faint sketch of leaves with a vague face in the middle, a sharp and pointed face that looked a little familiar. I set the tea out with more Oreos, slipping Grover one beneath the table. It was a tea party, and everyone deserved cookies at a tea party.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I said. “People I know usually wind up in my paintings. I even have a couple of Grover.”

yOu makE THEse

“Yeah, that’s what I do, I paint.” I smiled as Thistle grabbed an Oreo and began chomping into it, sounding a bit like Grover as she ate. “I mean, it’s both my work and my life. Though my mom thinks of it as more of a hobby.” And a waste of my life.

PRETTY

“Thanks. I do pretty well, at least I’m not a starving artist.” I sipped on my tea, scratching Grover’s nose when he shoved his head into my lap, probably hoping for another Oreo. “I sell enough to keep myself afloat. My landlord even gave me a deal on the rent for the house in exchange for a painting. His wife apparently really liked it, though I think she more-so likes the idea of a wild, eccentric artist living on her property.” I sighed, and Grover echoed me with a soft huff. “I wish my mom could see that I’m okay. Yeah, I’m not rich, but I’m surviving.”

I paused, “do fairies have moms?”

we HavE the FOResT

“Okay, I guess that’s an answer.”

Thistle suddenly sat up straight, dropping what was left of her Oreo and fluttering up into the air to hover right in front of my face.

TeAch ME

“What?!”

TEacH ME to make PreTTy

“You want…me to teach you to…paint?” I stared down at the sugared words, wondering if I was reading the crooked lines right.

Thistle clapped her hands and did a little dance in midair.

teaCH ME teAcH ME TEaCh ME

“I guess, yeah, I’ll do it.” Teach a fairy to pain, why not. It wasn’t crazier than having tea with one. “I’m gonna need to find an easier way to communicate with you,” I said as the sugar suddenly spun into ecstatic swirls and spikes across my already dirty table, some of it spilling to the floor much to Grover’s delight. I was going to run out of sugar at this rate.



I ended up using a Scrabble game that I had bought years ago, but never used. Thistle used the tiles without comment, rearranging them into eligible words with ease. While she could move the tiles with magic, Thistle insisted on using her hands to paint, something I could understand and admire. I couldn’t find or make a paintbrush small enough for her, but she seemed content to at first use her hands, then later she would bring in her own paintbrushes, tiny twigs with slender leaves at the tips.

After our morning tea and cookies, we would paint.

It wasn’t every morning that she appeared, but it was often enough that I restock on Oreos and tea sooner than expected. Thistle insisted on having her Oreos every time and would sometimes stack the cookies into a makeshift chair rather than eat them. It was surreal to watch the tiny fairy, perched on a stack of Oreos, staring at the tiny scrap of pale bark she used to as a canvas and listening intently as I tried, clumsily, to teach her to paint.

It was clear that Thistle couldn’t use the oil paints I used. I didn’t know how to prime a piece of bark the way I did a canvas, and Thistle seemed to find the smell of turpentine offensive. So we went with acrylics. I bought a nice set from the store, along with a book about painting for beginners, and soon in addition to my paintings there were a number of tiny and colorful fairy paintings on my countertop.

I had to use a magnifying glass to get a better look at Thistle’s work. It was clear that her art was very organic in nature (no pun intended), featuring a lot of flowery shapes and bright colors. At first there was a clear mimicry between her work and mine, her first paintings were small and sloppy copies of mine. Not that I was offended, that was part of how some people learned. I could still remember my van Gogh stage in high school, and then the clearly O’Keefe inspired work I did in college. But Thistle wasn’t content to just copy, any more than I had been. A month or so later her work was starting to evolve and change into something more original, something that only a fairy could do.

“I really like this,” I said as I peered through the magnifying glass at Thistle’s latest work.

It was a leaf, at first glass, an autumn leaf done in rich reds and golds. But closer inspection showed that the veins of the leaf were formed of leaping deer with wide spreading antlers and slender legs. The lines were simple and short, but the basic and minimal shapes held grace and an air of wildness within them.

Thistle beamed at me as she held up the painting high. The scrabble tiles clunked and spun around across the counter as she spoke.

GOOD ONE

“It is a good one, I like the touches of green in the deer, a nice contrast.” I gave the painting back, unwilling to hold the fragile thing longer than necessary. “We’re gonna have to figure out a way to frame it.”

FRAME

This led to a short lesson on framing, after which school was over and Thistle flitted out the door leaving me behind to clean up the paints and half-eaten cookies. She never finished an Oreo, much to Grover’s delight. I carefully collected her small paintings, placing them in an old jewelry box. They were so delicate and small, I wasn’t sure if framing was possible, but I wanted to find a way to preserve them. Maybe if I—

“Mariposa!” My mother’s voice was like a siren. “Why are you leaving your door open? It’s dangerous, too many bad men look for women who leave their doors open.”

My mother stomped into the kitchen as if she lived there, frowning at the mess of paints and empty mugs on my table. Grover danced in circles around her, tail wagging and ears slicked back as he whined and begged for attention.

“It was the back door, not the front, and I doubt anyone would try to break into the house when they see Grover.” I said, wincing slightly as Grover rolled onto his back so my mom could scratch his belly. Best guard dog in the world.

“Hmph, this dog couldn’t fight off a flower,” my mother said with a grimace, even as she sat down beside him to rub his belly and head, whispering endearments in his ears. “Hello mi bebé, mi pequeño idiota peludo.”

“He’s not an idiot, German Shepherds are one of the smartest dog breeds.”

“And he is the dumbest one,” my mom said with clear affection in her voice. “My big dumb baby.”

Grover groaned and twisted around to lay his head in my mother’s lap. Ears flat and tail wagging, he didn’t care about the insult. But I did. I had heard enough negative things from my mother growing up. I sighed heavily and Grover’s ears perked. As I sat down in one of the worn kitchen chairs, he flipped around and immediately trotted over, his whole rear end swaying back and forth as I scratched between his loving eyes.

Grover gave a high pitched, German Shepherd whine as I sighed again, “why are you here mom?”

“Don’t speak to your mamá like that.” My mother’s frown deepened. “I wanted to check in on you. You haven’t called.”

“I talked to you last week.”

“You haven’t called recently.” Mother sat down in the chair beside me with a huff. She took off one sandal and started to massage the deep insole of her foot. “How have you been?”

“I like your nail polish, really stunning shade of red.”

“Mariposa.” Mother’s voice held that warning tone that let me know I could get away with one more quip.

“Is it carmine? No, Spanish carmine?”

“Mariposa Eve Angelica Gomez.” There it was, the final warning.

I wiggled my own toes, staring down at the chipped, stubby toenails. Meanwhile my mother’s elegant feet were adorned with glossy nail polish, the toenails long and well cared for. My hands were stained with paint and covered with small nicks and cuts. Mother took care of her hands, lotions and sugar scrubs and long soaks followed by expensive manicures. I could pick out tiny gold roses with black thorns drawn on her red, red nails.

The tiny flowers reminded me of Thistle and her tiny paintings. I smiled, “I started teaching.”

Mother raised one well-groomed eyebrow. “Really?”

“Just one student right now. Private tutoring. I’m teaching her to paint.”

“I always told you that you should go into teaching.” Mother leaned back in her chair with a triumphant look on her face. “Glad to see you finally following some of my advice.”

I looked down at Grover. He was giving me that German Shepherd smile where he puffed out his cheeks and showed his front teeth. It was absolutely and utterly adorable, so I leaned down and kissed him on the nose.

Mother made a disgusted noise. “You shouldn’t kiss your dog on the mouth, it isn’t healthy. They have so many germs in their mouths.”

“So do we,” I retorted, then bit my tongue at the sour expression on mother’s face.

“Mariposa why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Act so…contrary!”

I tucked my feet under my chair and focused on giving Grover all the pets he wanted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This, this is what I’m talking about.” I couldn’t see her, but I knew the expression on her face at this very moment. It was an expression that had been imprinted on my heart, engraved during my high school years and stamped deep into my memories. That stare of utter and complete disapproval and disappointment. Condemnation fairly burned like a thick forest fire off my mother’s slender frame. I could feel the heat, the searing flames of criticism against my life choices licking against my flesh in thin, blistering lines.

Even now as she bragged to her friends about how her daughter was a famous artist, she still rejected my very life. I could hear her clicking her tongue as she shook her head, eyes rolling heavenward as she muttered in Spanish for God’s help with her ‘disrespectful daughter.’ I bit my lip, feeling my eyes burn as tears welled up at the corners. Grover whined and slapped his paw on my knee.

I smiled at him. “Yeah, I know sweet stupid baby. Grandma has a lot to say.”

Mother bristled. “What was that?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired, mom. Been working a lot on new paintings and helping my student.”

“Ah, good Mariposa. It’s good to stay busy. Keeps your mind sharp and body fit.” Mother smiled benevolently at me and stood up. “Come give me a hug.”

I stood up and hugged her, keenly aware of how much bigger I was compared to my tiny mother. Another point of contention between us. But I did love her, truly. And feeling her arms wrap around me was like being swaddled in memories, warm and comforting. As much as we fought and disagreed, I knew my mother loved me.

Mother left and I was alone in my mess of a kitchen. Surrounded by half-finished paintings and bent tubes of paint, the smell of turpentine and oil paint strong in the air. Colors filled the room and light, colors and light. Two aspects of life that I cherished above all else. I stared at my paintings and I could see my life spread out in color and light and art.

Grover nuzzled my hand and I stroked his long nose. “I know, Grover. It’s always…difficult when grandma comes over.”

Grover nudged my hand as if to say that everything was okay. He loved me and I loved him and that was enough in Grover’s world. Food, pets and long walks, that was all he needed to be happy. I wished my life could be as simple as a dog, I wished my desires were so banal and easy to fulfill. But alas, I had been condemned to a life as a human and had to make do.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” I said, needing clean air and trees to clear my mind.

Grover’s ears perked and he immediately did the happy dance, bouncing on his back legs as he huffed excitedly. I hooked up his bright pink leash with yellow sunflowers (my favorite flower) to his equally colorful collar and off we went. We crossed the thick grass of my backyard and found the tiny deer trail that ran through the woods that was Grover and I’s favorite route.

As soon as my feet touched the path, dry leaves crunching beneath my shoes and releasing that fresh scent of autumn into the air, I felt better. The trees were mostly bare by now and the air was crisp and full of the promise of winter soon to come. I caught sight of squirrels frantically scavenging for nuts amid the branches and birds sang out here and there throughout the echoing canopy of the forest.

Grover paused at every bush and tree lining the path to sniff deeply before leaving his own special mark behind. His tail wagged gently, snagging on crooked limbs and accumulating tiny leaves and twigs in the bushy fur. Which reminded me. This was where Thistle was from, the forest. So where exactly did she live in these woods?

My feet soon led us off the path and deeper into the woods. Where there were no trails, just a thick carpet of orange-red leaves drying beneath the pale autumn sky, trees spreading out before me as far as my eyes could see. I stepped deeper into the woods, Grover at my side, and soon lost sight of the trail behind me. All I could see was trees, rough brown trunks stretching upward with branches spread wide like hands grasping at the wispy clouds high above.

No…wait…those were hands.

A tree beside me sighed softly, long limbs languidly moving in the wind as it twisted around to face me. Because there was a face, hidden among the branches, formed of leaves and twigs and fluttering birds. Another tree hummed and still another moved closer to me, leaves billowing around it’s trunk as it lifted it’s roots to move.

Grover yipped once, a high and excited bark. I wasn’t so excited, I was petrified. The first tree leaned close, eyes made of dark moths with gleaming golden markings, the barest suggestion of a mouth carved into the wood. The mouth didn’t move, yet the tree spoke.

*So…here you are…the one who makes the pretties.*

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. “I paint.”

*Pretty paintings from a pretty girl.* Another tree whispered.

Their voices were like the dry rustling of leaves, like the sweet susurration of the wind through the trees, the soft patter of rain across damp grass and the first notes of early morning’s birdsongs. Yet I understood it, heard words that translated both in English and Spanish. The forest speaks and it is bilingual, I thought giddily. Then I heard the chatter, the high pitch squeaks and chirps of fairies.

They swarmed around the tree face, fluttering on vibrantly colored wings. No two fairies were alike. There was a slender fairy with massive sapphire and ebony wings, her hair a splash of gold surrounding a pale face. There was a fairy as dark as a shadow, with fuzzy moth wings and far too many hands. There was a fairy riding a squirrel, complete with a tiny saddle and harness, a mushroom perched jauntily on it’s head. So many of them, a whole flock? Or what did one call a group of fairies?

Thistle swooped down, her tiny face alight with joy. She gestured at the trees and the fairies regarding me curiously, excitement making her tiny thorns vibrate. The other fairies joined her, circling around me, their voices like chimes, like tiny silver bells. Like songs forgotten by time and mankind, an ancient melody that vibrated along my bones and made my skin tingle.

I couldn’t help it, I started to giggle, then laugh. And I could hear the fairies laughing with me. I could see Grover panting, a wide doggy smile on his lean face. I could feel the patter of tiny hands along my face, the brush of a velvety wing against my skin, dainty fingers twisting in my dark curls and tying it off into knots.

I laughed and the forest laughed with me.



Winter came and with it a deep, hacking cough for Grover.

“Come on baby,” I pleaded. “Just eat your breakfast.”

Grover regarded me sadly, nosed his food once then laid down and coughed. I bit my lip; he hadn’t eaten his dinner either. It was time to call the vet. I got lucky and managed to schedule an appointment for that day. Grover became more animated and excited as I gathered his leash and my keys. It was time for a car ride.

“What a handsome boy,” the vet crooned as we walked in.

Grover stared at the washed-out room with it’s long, sterile table. The strange smells made his nose twitch and he whined uneasily. I laid a hand on his large head, absently noting that there were more grey furs in his muzzle, more than last winter.

“He has a cough, and he hasn’t been keen on his food lately,” I said.

If I hadn’t been so worried about Grover, I probably would’ve been more tongue-tied around the vet. She was gorgeous; a tall, leggy blond with brilliant green eyes. My fingers itched as I stared at her sculpted face and wide, generous mouth. I wanted to sketch her, to paint. To touch.

“Let’s check him over, then,” The vet, Maggie, said.

Maggie listened to his heart and chest, a small smile on her face when he reached around to lick her cheek. But there was no smile when she said that they needed to do x-rays. There was no smile when she brought Grover back to me and said I needed to take a look at the scans. There was no smile as she pointed out that his lungs were filled with cancer.

No smile.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said softly. “It’s very advanced, he must’ve been hiding it for some time.”

Grover had once gotten a shard of glass stuck in his paw. He had limped over with barely a whine and had let me pull it out without wincing or crying. I could easily believe he had managed to hide a body filled with death. He stared up at me with those soft, brown eyes. No whining, just watching. Waiting for me to fix it. Waiting for me to save him and make him better because to him I was a magical benevolent being of wonder and miracles and why the fuck couldn’t I fix cancer!?

I held him until he breathed his last.

Later I went home to an empty house. Alone. The smell of dog lingered in my car, I could see the smears along my car windows where Grover had done his nose-art. Golden brown and black strands of fur covered my seats. But there was no dog. Not anymore.

I sat in my living room, alone. Empty. There were no tears, I had shed them all as Grover had died in my arms. I had cried my last when he had stiffened and then gone completely limp. Now I felt numb, utterly and completely devoid of any and all emotion. It was like my heart had stopped alongside Grover’s. A vital piece had crumbled away, crushed to dust, and now I was left with a shattered, broken bit of flesh and blood that refused to beat.

Days past and still there was no beat.

No more Grover.

He had been more than my pet; he had been my heart and now that heart was gone.

My heart…was gone…

A clatter sounded from the kitchen and my body was instantly flooded with adrenaline. I had no Grover to deter any would-be-robbers. I was a woman home alone and now it sounded as if I wasn’t as alone as I had thought. I grabbed a poker from the fireplace and carefully crept toward the kitchen, keenly aware of how physically incapable I was at any form of combat.

I flipped the switch on the kitchen to reveal a cluster of fairies on my kitchen table, eagerly munching away at a spilled bag of Oreos on my table. Thistle grinned up at me from the mess, and gestured at the fairies crowding around her.

FRIENDS COME

“Your friends from the forest,” I said faintly.

Thistle grinned and nodded vigorously. TEACH US TO MAKE PRETTIES

I set the poker down carefully, feeling slightly dizzy. More fairies. My life was now filled with fairies. Brimming over with them. Fairies filled my kitchen, sat on the edges of pots and gazed at their reflections in the shiny surfaces of knives. Fairies stared up at me with the expectation that I could teach them to ‘make pretties.’

Thistle zipped around the kitchen before fluttering near my face. WHERE DOG

My eyes started to burn again and I had to take several deep breaths before I could answer. “He’s…he’s gone.”

GONE

It was a question and I answered. “He died today.”

Thistle apparently understood that. I could see her tiny black eyes widen and she slowly floated down to the table. Scrabble pieces skittered about, aimlessly forming words that broke apart before I could read them properly, but I got the sense that she was upset. The other fairies seemed confused and flew around Thistle, several landing beside her and chittering to her in their high, singing voices.

GONE

Thistle repeated the word and I could really feel it. Gone. Grover was…gone. I would never see him again. Never take him for another walk. Never have to spend hours brushing out the tangles in his thick fur. Never complain about the mud splatters he left over my car back seat. Never see the silly smile he would do. The burning in my eyes turned to a searing heat that began to drip down my cheeks. I was crying again.

Thistle flew up to my face and reached out, one tiny hand touching my face, then cupping one teardrop. She brought the teardrop up to her face and licked it, tasted my tears, my sorrow. A shiver ran through her body, followed by a brilliant emerald glow that suffused her from wings to thorn tips. The glow was warm, and for a second in the dead of winter with frost clinging to the windows, I could smell spring.

Everything was going to be okay.

I cried and the fairies cried with me.



Normalcy was elusive after Grover’s death.

But it wasn’t as if my life had been oh-so-normal before that. I had been giving regular painting lessons to fairies. Plural now. Thistle had brought all her friends…family? Perhaps there was no differentiation between the two. Perhaps the forest existed as an unbroken whole, with every piece fitting perfectly. It was a nice thought and it made me wish humans were so inclined.

But maybe I wasn’t normal or mundane for a reason. What normal human being could handle dealing with fairies on a regular basis? What normal person could comprehend what it was like to instruct various magical beings on the basic points of painting? I had always thought that I was the odd one out, and now seeing that being a bit weird was a benefit in my current situation, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Maybe my mom thought differently, but I didn’t care. Not when my house was full of color and light. Of laughter and art. The fairies brought with them life. Happiness. They were creatures of the elements, of fleeting emotions that came and went like a sudden breeze. Thistle was sad that Grover was gone, I knew that. But the sadness would not, could not laugh. She was a daughter of the forest, of nature, and death was an integral part of that.

I was still sad, still grieving, but I was also alive. I was living a life that maybe my mother didn’t approve of, maybe it wasn’t orthodox. But it was mine and it was good and I was alive.

I was feeling particularly alive when I went to the grocery store to stock up on Oreos and tea. And ran into Maggie, the cute vet.

“Oh, hi, Mariposa, right?” She smiled at me, a brilliant and beautiful smile that made her entire face glow. “I’m Maggie.”

“I remember, I mean, yes. Maggie, right.” I stammered, feeling my face burn with embarrassment. This was why I preferred fairies to humans, they didn’t care about social niceties or small talk. They were real, they were alive. Like me.

Maggie extended her hand and I shook it. Her hands were strong, long fingers and elegant bone structure. I wanted to sketch just her hands, to draw every fluid line and curving nail. Her skin was so warm, yet not soft. There was steel in her grip that assured me that she was accustomed to working with her hands.

“I know it’s hard losing a pet.” Maggie tucked one curling strand of blond hair behind her ear and I nearly melted at the gesture. “They’re family.”

I could remember how Grover had slept in my bed, taking up more than half the space and snoring softly. “Yes…they really are.”

“Are you…” Maggie bit her rosy lip. “Are you doing anything later?”

Other than teaching fairies to paint, my time was mostly free. But I didn’t say that. Instead I managed to speak like a normal human being and secured a dinner date with Maggie the adorable vet. One dinner date turned into two and soon Maggie and I were meeting regularly. I hesitated to call her my ‘girlfriend’ though. There were parts of me she didn’t know yet and I drove myself mad trying to figure out how I would explain this all to her.

As I taught color theory to fairies I wondered how to explain this all to the woman I was falling in love with.

Winter gave way to spring and with the flowers blooming I decided to go for a walk. The first walk I had gone on since Grover had passed. The trails were muddy so I stepped off the beaten path and walked among the rich loam of the forest. Tiny flowers of all sorts of colors and shapes sprouted around me and I could see buds on the trees forming new leaves.

The air was clean, a perfume of life and living things growing and birthing and simply…living. There was the soft thud of hooves against ground and I could see a trio of deer fleeing. Birds sang bright songs from the tree tops and squirrels scampered to and fro. The wind brushed softly against my skin and I could feel the warmth of the sun above. It was beautiful and wonderful.

I missed Grover so much.

Underneath the lull of birdsong and wind, I could hear another noise. A soft whimpering, like a hurt or scared animal. Drawn to the noise I followed it, pushing deeper into the woods and past a thick clump of pale birch trees to found myself in a small clearing. Trees huddled close around the small, round opening of grass and flowers. The ground rose up in the middle to reveal a ring of pale mushrooms.

And in the middle of the ring was a puppy.

I approached cautiously. “Here there, little guy, girl? You must be lost.”

The puppy whimpered harder and staggered to it’s thick little legs. Wobbling hard, tail wagging, it walked up to me and sat down at my feet with a satisfied huff. It looked to be a German Shephard, but no Shephard I’d seen had those colors. Mostly white, but the typical saddle patterns of a German Shephard were not in black. But instead a vibrant, fiery red.

The puppy stared up at me with great golden eyes and gave a happy yip. It’s oversized ears flopped at every movement and I could feel my heart melting away as easily as the spring sun had melted snow. I fell to my knees and gathered up the happily wiggling and licking puppy.

Thistle soundly fluttered into sight and then I could hear the trees, the forest whispering. A gift for you, they said. A gift for someone who is a friend of the forest and all its children. A gift for your heart.

I burst into tears and the puppy started to lick my face eagerly.



“What a beautiful little boy!” Maggie exclaimed excitedly.

The puppy wagged his tail harder as she cooed over him. I smiled, it was the puppy’s first check up and so far, everything was good and normal. Not that I thought that a puppy gifted to me by fairies would turn out to be normal, I had no doubt there would be surprises down the line. But at the moment he was just a happy, healthy, handsome puppy.

“I’ve never seen a German Shepherd with colors like this,” Maggie said. “White and red, with such bright gold eyes. So pretty, he’s going to be gorgeous when he gets older.” She smiled at me and touched my hand. “What are you going to name him?”

I stared down the puppy, that brilliant crimson and white fur was so soft beneath my fingers. I had named Grover after a Muppet, and it seemed that the puppy’s colors brought to mind another Muppet.

“I think…Elmo is a good name,” I smiled back at Maggie.

She squeezed my hand and Elmo yipped. Later it was movie night at my place. I wasn’t embarrassed anymore about Maggie seeing my messy place. She seemed to have fully embraced everything about me, and seemed particularly enthused about my eccentric, bohemian lifestyle. We cuddled on the couch and watched Star Wars while Elmo snored in my lap.

A familiar clatter sounded from the kitchen and I froze. I made up a pretense about needing a drink, eased Elmo off my lap and into Maggie’s arms. Then I tiptoed into the kitchen to find Thistle and three other fairies staggering among the art clutter on my table.

“Thistle,” I hissed. “What are you doing here? I’m not alone and you know that.”

Thistle fell onto her side and at first I thought she was hurt. Then I realized as she attempted to spell out words with the Scrabble pieces, that she was…well, drunk.

I THHHISTLE WAN SHEE YOU

She staggered to her feet, one wing sagging lower than the other, and gestured so broadly that she fell over again. I could see that she and the other fairies were holding tiny acorn cups that they frequently drank out of. And I could smell it too. A sweet odor, like sun-ripened berries and late fall apples mixed in with the crispness of an early winter morning.

“You can’t be here,” I said.

Thistle looked downfallen, swaying slightly as she pushed the Scrabble pieces around.

SHHORRY

Then she brightened visibly.

WHEREEE DOG

“Elmo is in the living room with another human who doesn’t believe in fairies and oh no, don’t do that,” I whispered frantically as the fairies pantomimed falling dead before rolling to their feet and laughing hysterically.

“Don’t do what?” Maggie’s voice floated from directly behind me.

I whirled around, face burning, arms spread as if to hide the fact that four very drunk fairies were behind me. “Nothing, I mean, what are you doing here?”

“Watching a movie with you,” Maggie grinned. “Come on, the best part is coming and…what is that?”

I couldn’t hide the fairies, not when Maggie was taller than me and two of them had decided to take to the air, giggling and dancing around. I watched Maggie’s eyes widen and her jaw dropped and I felt my heart fall to my feet at the sight. This was it, I thought. This is the moment she rejects me. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for because I know I’m just not…enough.

“Are…those…” Her voice trailed off as she stepped around me to peer down at the table.

“Fairies,” I said numbly. “I give them painting lessons and in return they gave me a dog, Elmo.”

“You’ve been teaching fairies to paint,” Maggie said in a faint voice.

“Yeah…they’re really good and they do really interesting naturalistic art and…” I stuttered to a halt, realizing I was babbling.

Maggie stared down at Thistle who gave a little bow, fell over and hiccupped.

I THHHISTLE

“Her name is Thistle,” I said.

“Thistle,” Maggie repeated.

“She and her friends are a little drunk right now.”

Maggie nodded gravely, “Oh, of course.” She stared at me, then looked down at the fairies and gave a heavy sigh. “Well, do you think they like watching movies too?”

*In loving memory of Casey*