Magic parachutes

              One spring morning I awake to see the rising sun’s rays illuminate the patient lap of an old bear named Michael, perched on our windowsill. Michael is Jonathan’s childhood bear, worn threadbare, squashed, a calm, kind expression about the eyes. He has a tiny zippered pocket in his back that little-boy Jonathan used to turn inside-out to make Michael fly, “his magic parachute.”
            Jonathan and the bed creak audibly as he gets up for work. I hear him down the hall - splash water on face, pick out dress shirt, slacks. He’s back, sits on the edge of the bed to put on socks. Michael looks on quietly. I wonder how often Jonathan looks back. It’s good to have old friends nearby. It’s good to remember childhood and magic parachutes.
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 273: 130 words, TOTAL = 46,065; 13,935 remaining

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