Livora Gracely

Was that one always there?

One New Spot

Milo found the spot while putting on his shoes.

He had seen plenty of spots on his leg before. This one, however, sat just above his ankle and looked as though it had been waiting for him to notice it.

“Was that always there?” he asked.

His older sister, Nia, was at the window with a camera. She had been waiting for the morning light to reach the front steps, where she wanted to take a photograph before they left for their aunt’s house.

“Which one?”

Milo pointed. Nia crouched beside him, her camera bumping against her cardigan.

“That one,” he said.

“I can’t see it. Your finger is on it.”

He moved his finger. Nia studied the spot. It was round, dark, and surrounded by several others that appeared to have no opinion on the matter.

“I don’t remember,” she said.

Milo looked up. “But you’ve known me my whole life.”

“I haven’t looked at your ankle the whole time.”

He considered this. It seemed an unfortunate omission.

Hold Still

Their mother had promised to send Aunt Rosa a picture before they arrived. Nia had asked to take it herself. Last time, she had caught Milo halfway through a sneeze; Aunt Rosa had put the picture on her fridge anyway.

Nia wanted to give her one in which they both had their eyes open.

“Stand by the steps,” she said. “We can look in the old album afterwards.”

Milo went outside, bringing his shoe with him. The stone was cool beneath his bare foot. Nia leaned her camera against the flowerpot, set its timer, and hurried to stand beside him.

A small light began to blink.

Milo bent to check his ankle.

The camera clicked.

In the picture, Nia was smiling at the lens. Milo’s head was out of view, and his tail curved neatly across her knees.

“Your eyes were open,” he said.

“Yours might have been. I can’t tell.”

Nia picked up the camera and checked the time. Their mother was bringing a cake from the kitchen, and they would need to leave soon. She had just enough time for one more attempt if Milo would put on his shoe.

“But it’ll cover the spot,” he said.

“That is usually where shoes go.”

Milo held the shoe against his chest and looked down at his ankle again.

The Old Photograph

Nia fetched the album from the shelf beside the door. Its thick cover smelled faintly of dust, and a corner of one page had come loose from the binding.

They found a picture of Milo as a baby, sitting in a washing basket with both feet in the air. Nia remembered arranging his toys around him while their mother took it. She had insisted the basket needed a passenger and had been delighted when Milo agreed to stay in it.

“There!” she said, turning the album towards the light.

Milo leaned so close that his whiskers brushed the page. One foot was visible, but the other was tucked behind a toy rabbit.

“Which foot is that?” he asked.

Nia looked at the rabbit. “I think it’s the one without your shoe.”

“I’m not wearing either shoe.”

“Then I’ll need a moment.”

They tilted the photograph one way and then the other. The ankle was too small to show much. Milo found a dark mark, but it might have been a shadow from the rabbit’s ear.

From the kitchen came the sound of a cake tin closing. Their mother called that it was time.

Nia glanced from the album to the camera. She still wanted a picture for Aunt Rosa, but Milo was holding his leg up to the window now, comparing it with the photograph.

“Stay there,” she said.

Off They Go

Nia set the camera on the shelf, aimed it towards the doorway, and started the timer. She sat beside Milo with the album across both their laps.

“Should I smile?” he asked.

“Only if you’ve found something funny.”

“I might have.”

He pointed to his ankle. Nia leaned closer, and the camera clicked while they were both looking down.

Their mother came in carrying the cake. She looked at the screen and laughed. Nia was holding the album open; Milo had one foot on the floor and one paw lifted towards his ankle. His missing shoe sat between them.

“I like that one,” their mother said.

Nia looked at it again. Both of them were in the frame. Milo’s eyes were open, too, although Aunt Rosa would have to take their word for it.

“Can we send it?” Milo asked.

Nia sent the picture and slipped the old photograph from the album’s corner into an envelope for the journey. Milo put on his shoe and carried the envelope to the door.

On the way to Aunt Rosa’s, he asked to see the new picture once more. He enlarged it carefully, searching his ankle.

“There it is,” Nia said.

Milo peered at the screen.

His finger was on it.