My Cardboard Balcony

Somebody Stole An Iris by Belinda Roddie Somebody stole an iris from a pot that sat in Missus Hathaway's front yard. I do not know if it had bloomed or not, but all the same, the crime was quite bizarre. The sad old lady threw a fine old fit and got half of the neighborhood involved. She would not let the cops sleep for one bit until the floral mystery was solved. Then one morning, I saw a girl pass by, her hair done up in curls, her cheeks bright red, a purple iris pinned beside her eye, the petals woven bright upon her head. The young thief walked beside her, face aglow. Whether he was ever caught, I don't know.

Hillary took the speckled apron and draped it over her son's chest, tying a simple butterfly knot around his back. He held the spatula in one tiny fist and the ladle in the other, grinning from ear to ear. "Do I look like a cook now, Mommy?" he asked, the gap in his front teeth clearly showing. Hillary smiled with watery eyes. "You look like a master."