Everything left in place. Mama Bear, Papa Bear and Baby Bear on the bed. The just right bed, she used to say.

Hair ribbons and brush on the dresser with a few golden strands carefully twisted and placed in an envelope.

The porridge bowl and special spoon in the cupboard Not too hot, not too cold, she would mumble through the oatmeal.

Whilst sitting on her chair that was not too big nor too small. Papa fixed the wobble.

One morning, she staggered down to breakfast, her hair a tangled mess, her clothes rumpled and slept in.

She stared at Papa: “You are too hot,” she screamed. At Mama, she howled: “You are too cold.”

And, as she ran out the door, she called back, “And, I, I am not just right.” {132}

For Sunday Photo Fiction 08.01.17

(c) Lorraine

 

 

 

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