Letters to Robin

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: REAGAN

8th February

Today's prompt (Write down a comforting memory)

Dear Robin,

It's the 23rd of December, one day before Christmas, and we're eight years old and staying at the Montana ranch we always go to at this time of the year. Mom just told us for the hundredth time that we can't have a pet because Dad's allergic to fur, so we're sitting outside on the front steps of the cabin, looking through a book filled with animals that don't have fur. The book was Aunt Ellie's early Christmas gift. Dad dressed us today, which means that everything matches, and we're bundled up so tightly we can hardly move. You're talking to me, but I keep getting distracted by the way the snow looks as it falls beneath the Streetlight's warm yellow glow. I want to stand underneath it and stick my tongue out, but Mom says we're not supposed to move from the front steps.

“Ray! You're not listening to me,”

“Yes, I am!” I'm lying through my teeth and by the way you roll your eyes, you know it too.

“Does a kangaroo have fur?”

“I think so,”

“Darn it. We can get a naked mole-rat,” You say, tilting the book to show me the picture. I shake my head vehemently, I definitely don't want to pet a naked mole rat.

“Okay, how about a..... Ba..... Bab,” I tilt my head to look at the pig-looking creature and then read the headline above the picture.

“Babirusa,”

“Thanks. Do you want one?” I shrug my shoulders, it's not ugly like the naked mole-rat, but the tusk looks pointy.

“Looks big enough to ride like a pony,” you say, and that seals the deal. We wanted a Babirusa.

“We found a pet without fur that won't make Dad sick,” you say to Mom once we're inside again. She's making cookies in the kitchen, and the cabin smells like almond and vanilla.

“And what kind of animal is that?” Mom asks, sending Dad one of their secret looks from his place on the couch near the fireplace.

“A Babirusa,” I say because you still couldn't pronounce the name properly.

“There are no Babirusas in Arizona, girls. Sorry,” my dad says from the living room.

“There are plenty in the zoo,” you say defiantly, your hand coming up to rest on your hips.

“I'm sure the zoo knows how to take care of one,” Mom says, putting a tray of cookies in the oven. “Besides, guys. Babirusas are only in Indonesia,”

“So let's move to Indonesia,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. Mom looks at me, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Do you want to move to Indonesia, Reagan?”

“Say yes,” you whisper in my ear. You were always telling me what to do because you were born thirteen minutes before me and were just a little taller. “Yes,” I say, nodding my head at Mom.

“Sorry guys, can't move to Indonesia,” Dad says, trying to look stern but failing miserably.

“That's not fair! We want to ride him like a pony,” You shout, and Dad starts laughing in the living room.