At the fair pa always bought me cotton candy.
I’d watch the threads sparkle as they spun in the bowl. Within moments a pink cloud as big as my head would be handed to me on a stick.
“Don’t tell your ma,” he’d warn, and I’d nod and follow him to the stand where he had his vegetables laid out for the judging.
He always won. The other farmers would shake their heads, spit, and wonder aloud why they bothered. They liked pa anyway, because he always bought them a drink afterwards.
The sweet candy would melt on my tongue as they discussed manure, soil, and watering schedules over beers.
I would marvel at the magic that created so much cotton candy from so little, and how quickly it disappeared again.
Someday I will master that trick, and I will fade from sight as if I never existed.
Match the story (and the number) to the face at Mirrors.