'Translucent' by Lisa Alletson

I lost my child’s pet today. Samantha, the ladybug, crept into the house on my teen’s Bowie t-shirt yesterday. Samantha found me, my child says, lengthening the vowels in his blueberry mouth. Spiking his hair with one hand. Rubbing the back of his neck, not yet used to the prickly feel of a boy’s haircut. He fills his old dollhouse with damp paper towel and honey and lettuce. For hours, we stare through the tiny window while Samantha explores. Upside down on the yellow ceiling. Sideways on the turquoise walls. Sipping honey from the plastic bed til its barely-there legs grow sticky. I think Sam’s a he, my kid says. I think he’s happy, he nods, smoothing his own shorts. Let’s check, I say, flipping the dollhouse door open. Sam the ladybug crawls out. Rises into the air. Honey-damp wings fighting to get higher. His sunlit body glows red on his very first flight through our open window. He’s free, I shout, my son reaching out to catch my tears with his finger.