My daughter loved unicorns when she was young. I mean who doesn’t, right? She collected them. Cards, statues, everything. I kind of collected a few myself. But the differences between our unicorns were obvious from the start.
Her unicorns were all white, with flowers in their manes. Beautiful, delicate, and graceful unicorns.
My unicorns were black, or dark blue, with thick ankles and big hoofs, their wild manes thrashing in the wind, against a black and navy blue sky. Mine were furious, ready for war.
The other day, when we were shopping, she came up to me in Barnes and Nobles and handed me a black unicorn. She held up a white one, with flowers in her mane. It was a sweet gesture, taking us back many years.
We are yin and yang. She’s gentle and lives in a garden. I’m furious and I live in a war zone. Neither of us has changed. We love our unicorns still, and like them, we are who we are. I made her life difficult. I can’t even see the garden…I just see the bodies.