Stranger

by Hall Jameson

Maggie stood by her mother's shins at the airport, her five-year-old self, invisible. When her father emerged from the tunnel, she saw him as a brown paper bag. Her mother, a tuna sandwich with the crusts removed.

A sorceress handed her a carnation on the way to the cab. Her parents shuffled ahead, unaware that she has paused by the glass doors. Smiling, the Sorceress hummed a private tune. She held Maggie's hand and they danced to the beat of the magic doors, as they whooshed open and shut.

Maggie decided to go home with this woman, instead of the strangers by the cab. She could not belong to them—with their matching slacks and brown turtlenecks. Surely, they stole her from this woman with the tangerine robes and bundle of fragrant carnations.

Her mother discovered that she was no longer in tow and scooted back through the doors. She frowned at the Sorceress, because she knew that Maggie had chosen her to be her real mother.

The sorceress waved. In the cab, Maggie held the carnation to her nose to mask the smell of stale sweat and cigars, and hummed her own private tune.