he left and took the thimble with him. as we whispered our susurrus of goodbyes, the twinkle lost in his, my eyes, he stole the thimble away and never gave it back. he never gave anything back, he was just gone in a sprinkle of tink-dust, and left me shivering in the warm afternoon sun.

he said he would write back to me so i promised to wait for his letters. i made it my daily duty to sit by the mailbox waiting for the tumble of letters fall from the gnarly fingers of the postman. i invested in a pretty box to keep all his letters in, and even spent my last few dollars on a thick ribbon in shimmering ivy green (to match his pants). yesterday i opened that box, and sneezed away the gathering dust.

i always knew it would be hard to kick the habit.
but i never knew how hard it would be to break the promise.

i sit in my kitchen, lined with linoleum, a pot gurgling in the corner. it has been a few (neverland) years since then, and i had almost forgotten. i had almost forgotten until i woke up with the scent of fairy dust in the air. i had almost forgotten until the ivy green sound of his voice whispered, light trips of rustling melody, into my ear. playfully mocking me.

'wendy, dear, you really have grown a whole lot!'. he accompanied it with a wide spread, juvenile grin.

i sit in my kitchen, but the pot is not the only thing gurgling. peter, peter, peter, pan sits across me, gurgling happy tales of all that has happened in neverland since i was gone. i sit in my kitchen listening. i listen but his words are just mellifluous sound, pretty, but forgetful. i do not pay attention to his animated actions of a snapping crocodiles snout. i decide to take a stab.

'peter, why did you never write?'

i am still listening, but not only are his words forgetful, but they are silent. he bows his head for a while. the lid on the deserted pot starts to clatter, and i hear the frothing of liquid overflowing the sides, sizzling across the gas stove. i hear the end of my dinner, and i hear the end of us. peter says he's sorry and he opens the window and flies into the glittering constellation.

i am still sitting in my kitchen. my daughter walks through the door and makes her way to the seat across me. peter's seat. she is only four, and as she clambers onto the hard brown chair, she picks something off the chair.

'mummy, is this yours?'

she drops the silvery thimble out of her chubby fingers, and onto the table. the thimble is rusty and cracked, disintegrating of old, old age.

and so am i.