One of my yoga teachers is a tiny, dark-haired Brazilian woman with a lilting accent who sings a gentle chant at the close of each class. She reminds me of a little fairy. I want to crouch on my knees, poke my nose between the blades of grass and clover and invite her to climb into my cupped hands.
I'll walk her home, careful not to bend her wings, and put her… where? On the kitchen windowsill where I can whisper to her as I wash up?
She can hula hoop or skip along the sill - between paintbrushes and barrettes - cast her wand my direction and rain magical sparks over me to quiet the worry. She can sing while I close my eyes and float elsewhere.