There is no cheerful clatter of pans, or old Beatles records spinning in the living room. No warm cinnamon smell fills the air – only burnt coffee. For a moment, I'm half expecting Papa to swoop me up ... [+]
Katherine Quevedo lives with her husband and two sons near Portland, Oregon, where she writes stories and poems. Find her at www.katherinequevedo.com.
Zebra, Mule, and I stood abreast, as always, and studied the newcomer. Sea Horse reared up from his pale green tentacle of a tail. His upper half resembled the cavalry horses behind us, complete with kicking hooves and a spray of mane. Of all the carousel steeds, only Sea Horse boasted such fine aquamarine paint, not our bland neutrals. From my spot behind the bench next to him, I strained to watch his half laughing, half snarling face and one of his silver eyes. He'd replaced Ostrich after she'd lost hope and decayed, but no one ever mentioned that. Not even the cavalry horses. To speak of t