A Princess From Another Land

A glass slipper is found in a closet, you:

1. Start to sing with the birds. The bluejay tells you it has traveled from a park in Canada. Have you been to Canada, it asks, and you say only once. You were ten and it was three months before your mom died. She wanted to see the lake. Your father grilled hot dogs. You made cupcakes. Your mom nibbled on the bun, repeating “it’s good” but left a full plate. There were leftovers for days in the refrigerator.
2. Run to the fairy village in your backyard. Watch the fairies fly like tiny stars. Have one sit on your shoulder and vape. Aurora, with her multicolored wings, says you haven’t visited, taking the time to talk, “What’s wrong, dear?” Aurora’s lived for centuries, plucked a few kings from their throne with a cough and started revolutions. She says your parents are proud, you’ve grown up to be such a strong woman. Aurora’s a liar.
3. Place it on your foot. Remember there was a dance and a prince and a stepmother you believe poisoned your father a small bit each day. You saw her yellow glowing eyes like a demon from a horror show, her human body only a vessel. You stayed quiet, went on shopping trips with your new sisters, pretended not to see the circles on your stomach in photos, wiped the marked surgical cuts to your face in the bathroom. Your father told you to give them time. Your father didn’t believe you. Your father is in the cemetery buried next to your mother
4. Break it. Let the shattered pieces cover the aluminum floor of your modest ranch home. Let the invisible shards break your skin in the summer, bleeding, leaving faded spots you find much later. Walk on the broken stars. Tear the ribbon in half. Embed the small jewels in the cracked pattern of the floor. All cuts heal.