“Lily,” he asked that evening when his sister took her comfort object, the stuffed elephant, from the shelf,
“did you know that once there really were elephants? Live ones?”
She glanced down at the ragged comfort object and grinned. “Right,” she said, skeptically. “Sure, Jonas.”
Jonas went and sat beside them while his father untied Lily’s hair ribbons and combed her hair.
He placed one hand on each of their shoulders.
With all of his being he tried to give each of them a piece of the memory: not of the tortured cry of the elephant,
but of the being of the elephant, of the towering, immense creature,
and the meticulous touch with which it had tended its friend at the end.
But his father had continued to comb Lily’s long hair, and Lily, impatient, had finally wiggled under her brother’s touch.
“Jonas,” she said, “you’re hurting me with your hand.”
“I apologize for hurting you, Lily,” Jonas mumbled, and took his hand away.
“’Cept your apology,” Lily responded indifferently, stroking the lifeless elephant.
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