Small Stories 

Wisteria knelt before the muddy puddle and pointed. In it, a shining yellow chick shivered against the bitter cold, its peeps already softer than even when we'd first arrived.
"She smells sick, gran," Wisteria whispered. "We could save her."
I leaned on my cane and ground my front teeth. "She's a phoenix, child," I started. "We've got no place for her."
"But she'll die out here."
"Yes, but--" Every protest died before my granddaughter's tears. "Alright, Wisteria. And damn us both."

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Small Stories 

@literorrery We save the ones we can. Not the ones we 'should'.

Small Stories 

@Momentrabbit That's a lesson that Grandmother Beverly knows, and Wisteria has yet to learn.

More noteworthy, it's a lesson that I've yet to figure out how to _teach_ outside of lived experience.

Small Stories 

@literorrery ... ah. You and I have different understandings of 'can' and 'should'.

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