The Marionette

Chris lifted the little wooden control bar.

The marionette rose from the bedroom floor.

She stretched her tiny arms toward the ceiling, then spun in a graceful circle. Her little skirt floated around her knees before settling again.

Chris smiled.

“There you are.”

The marionette curtsied.

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.”

She skipped across the rug toward the patch of sunlight spilling through the bedroom window. Standing in the warm light, she closed her eyes and lifted her face as though soaking in the afternoon.

“It’s beautiful today.”

“It is.”

She turned toward Chris.

“Will you dance with me?”

“I’d love to.”

There was no music.

There never needed to be.

Chris guided the little wooden control bar with practiced hands. The marionette danced across the room, twirling beneath invisible chandeliers, bowing to invisible audiences, laughing at invisible jokes only the two of them understood.

When the dance was finished, she gave one final curtsy.

Chris applauded.

“So kind,” the marionette said.

“I had a wonderful teacher.”

Chris laughed.

“You’ve never had a teacher.”

The marionette placed both hands on her hips.

“I have you.”

Chris bowed.

“Fair enough.”

⸻

That afternoon, they had tea.

The little table sat beside the bedroom window where warm sunlight filled the room.

Chris carefully arranged the tiny porcelain cups.

The marionette watched very seriously.

“I believe the flowers should go in the middle.”

Chris moved the little vase.

“Like this?”

“A little more.”

He slid it another inch.

“There.”

She smiled.

“Perfect.”

Chris poured invisible tea into the tiny cups.

The marionette lifted hers with both hands.

“To wonderful afternoons.”

Chris raised his own.

“To wonderful afternoons.”

Their cups touched with the tiniest little clink.

The marionette took a sip.

“Oh dear.”

“What?”

“It’s cold.”

Chris looked into his cup.

“I think…”

He leaned closer.

“…that’s because it’s imaginary.”

The marionette considered this very carefully.

“That would explain it.”

They both laughed.

After tea, Chris brushed an imaginary crumb from the marionette’s skirt.

“There.”

“Thank you.”

“You always look nice.”

The marionette smiled.

“I like when you say that.”

⸻

Rain came the next afternoon.

The drops tapped softly against the bedroom window while Chris curled into the corner of the bed with a fairy tale spread across his knees.

The marionette sat beside him.

Every time he turned the page, he held the pictures toward her.

“So I can see.”

“So you can see.”

The princess wore a flowing blue dress embroidered with little silver flowers.

The marionette sighed.

“She’s beautiful.”

Chris nodded.

“She is.”

“Do you think she’s happy?”

“I hope so.”

The marionette studied the picture.

“I think she is.”

“What makes you think that?”

She pointed toward the princess’s smile.

“That.”

Chris looked again.

“I think you’re right.”

He turned another page.

The princess danced beneath glowing lanterns.

Another page.

She poured tea in a rose garden.

Another.

She wandered through a field of wildflowers with ribbons in her hair.

The marionette smiled at every picture.

“I’d like to do all those things someday.”

Chris looked at the illustration for a long moment.

Then quietly turned the page.

⸻

Every evening ended the same way.

Chris sat the marionette on the dresser.

The little silver brush waited beside her.

“Ready?”

“I’ve been waiting.”

The first stroke slipped gently through her long hair.

“So soft…”

Chris smiled.

The brush continued its quiet journey from crown to ends.

Outside, evening birds sang their last songs before sunset.

Inside, the room grew peaceful.

Stroke after stroke.

The marionette closed her eyes.

“I like this.”

“I know.”

“It makes me feel pretty.”

Chris paused only long enough to smile.

“You are pretty.”

The marionette laughed softly.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

When he finished brushing, Chris tied a pale blue ribbon into her hair.

She admired herself in the mirror.

“I think this is my favorite ribbon.”

“I think so too.”

She spun once.

“It matches my smile.”

“It does.”

⸻

Saturday mornings smelled like cinnamon.

Chris wandered downstairs to find his mother sewing at the kitchen table.

Bright blue fabric rested across her lap.

“What are you making?”

She folded the fabric over with a smile.

“Oh…”

“Just something little.”

Chris smiled and wandered back upstairs.

Outside his bedroom door rested a neatly folded bundle.

Blue.

Very blue.

He picked it up carefully.

It was a tiny dress.

Soft cotton.

White buttons.

Little puffed sleeves.

Every stitch was perfectly even.

Chris carried it into his room.

The marionette waited patiently on the dresser.

“I think…”

He smiled.

“…this is for you.”

Very carefully, he helped her into the dress.

It fit perfectly.

She looked down at herself.

Smoothed the little skirt with both hands.

Then looked back up at Chris.

“The dress is beautiful.”

A gentle knock sounded at the open bedroom door.

His mother stood there smiling.

She looked at the marionette.

“It fits.”

Chris nodded.

The marionette gave a tiny curtsy.

“Thank you.”

His mother smiled warmly.

“You’re very welcome.”

She quietly closed the door behind her.

⸻

The little blue dress wasn’t the last.

A week later another one appeared.

Then another.

Sometimes they had ribbons.

Sometimes lace.

Sometimes tiny embroidered flowers.

Each one fit perfectly.

Each one seemed made with love.

One afternoon, his mother sat in the living room mending a sweater while Chris played nearby.

The marionette danced carefully across the coffee table.

His mother watched for a while.

Then she smiled.

“Can I ask you something?”

Chris looked up.

She nodded toward the little dancer.

“What’s her name?”

For just a moment, the room became perfectly still.

Chris looked down at the wooden control bar in his hands.

The marionette turned toward his mother.

She smiled.

“My name is Jenny.”

His mother smiled back as though she’d just met someone very important.

“Well…”

She held out one finger.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jenny.”

Jenny curtsied politely.

“It’s very nice to meet you too.”

His mother laughed softly.

“I’ve been wondering.”

She looked at Chris.

“You chosen a beautiful name.”

Chris lowered his eyes.

His mother reached over and gently squeezed his hand.

Nothing else was said.

There wasn’t anything else that needed saying.

After that day, everyone called her Jenny.

Chris did.

His mother did.

Even the house seemed to.

Sunday afternoons slowly became tea afternoons.

The dining room table was covered with a white tablecloth.

A vase of fresh flowers sat in the middle.

Two teacups waited on their saucers.

Chris smiled.

“This looks nice.”

His mother looked around the room.

“It does.”

Then she frowned ever so slightly.

“I think we’re forgetting someone.”

She reached beneath the table and placed a tiny porcelain cup on its own little saucer.

“There.”

She looked at Chris.

“Would you mind inviting Jenny?”

For just a moment, Chris couldn’t move.

Then he smiled.

“I’ll be right back.”

He hurried upstairs.

A moment later he returned, carrying Jenny carefully in both hands.

His mother had already placed a little chair beside the table.

Chris settled Jenny into it.

His mother poured tea into her own cup.

Then Chris’s.

Then, with the greatest seriousness, she tipped the teapot over Jenny’s tiny cup.

“There we are.”

Jenny smiled.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

They spent the afternoon talking about books, flowers, birds in the garden, and whether butterflies would rather have lemonade or tea.

No one ever reached a final answer.

Jenny voted for tea.

His mother wasn’t convinced.

Chris laughed until his cheeks hurt.

⸻

A few weeks later, while they were enjoying tea, his mother leaned toward Jenny.

She cupped one hand beside Jenny’s tiny ear and whispered something.

Then she listened.

“Oh?”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“I think that’s an excellent idea.”

She listened again.

Then smiled.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“I agree completely.”

Chris watched with a grin.

“What did she say?”

His mother smiled.

“I’m afraid…”

She leaned toward Jenny once more.

“…that’s between us girls.”

Jenny giggled.

Chris laughed so hard he nearly spilled his tea.

From then on, whispered conversations became part of every visit.

Sometimes Jenny made his mother laugh.

Sometimes she made her think.

Sometimes she made her smile in that quiet way mothers do when they already know the answer.

⸻

The seasons changed.

Jenny collected dresses.

Blue.

Pink.

Green.

Lavender.

Each one sewn by hand.

Each one made with love.

One Sunday afternoon Jenny wore her favorite blue dress.

Her hair had been brushed until it shone.

A ribbon rested neatly behind one ear.

Chris wore jeans and an old gray sweater.

Halfway through tea, his mother leaned toward Jenny again.

She whispered.

She listened.

Then smiled.

“Oh…”

She nodded.

“I think that’s a very fair question.”

Chris looked up.

“What?”

His mother smiled gently.

“Jenny wants to know…”

She paused.

“…why aren’t you wearing a pretty dress too?”

Chris froze.

His cheeks turned bright red.

His mother listened again.

Then laughed softly.

“She says you’re the only one who’s underdressed.”

Silence filled the room.

Not an uncomfortable silence.

Just a quiet one.

His mother stood.

“Well…”

She walked to the hallway closet.

When she returned, she carried a dress.

Soft blue.

White buttons.

A ribbon tied at the waist.

Just like Jenny’s.

Only larger.

Chris stared at it.

His hands trembled.

His mother held it out.

“I thought the two of you might like to match.”

Chris couldn’t find any words.

He looked down at Jenny.

Jenny looked up at the dress.

She smiled.

“The dress is beautiful.”

His mother smiled back.

“I hoped you’d think so.”

Very gently, she helped Chris into the dress.

She buttoned the back.

She tied the ribbon.

She smoothed the skirt with both hands, just as she always did for Jenny.

Then she stepped back.

She looked at Jenny.

Then at Chris.

A smile spread across her face.

“There.”

She folded her hands together.

“Now my girls match.”

Chris tried to smile.

Instead, his face crumpled.

The tears came all at once.

He covered his mouth, but the sobs came anyway.

His mother crossed the room without hesitation.

She wrapped both arms around him.

He buried his face against her shoulder.

She held him until the sobs began to soften.

Then she slipped her hand beneath his chin and gently lifted his face.

She smiled through tears of her own.

“There is my beautiful girl.”

She kissed her forehead.

“I love you so much.”

Another kiss.

“I see you, baby.”

She brushed away another tear.

“My sweet daughter.”

She held him close.

A gentle kiss on his cheek.

“My sweet daughter, Jenny.”

The End