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Fuzz.

By Carissa Tobin

MON MAR 16, 2020

Monday at home. No music class for Little L, not that we would be going anyway.

She's awake in her crib –I am lucky she's a rather cautious two-and-a-half-year-old– and I open the cabinet to get a mug for a cup of coffee before I go in to get her.

A fruit fly flies out.

I sigh, looking at the not-even-yet-ripe bananas on the counter. A fruit fly? Come on!

And then it floats closer. It's just a white piece of fuzz. Maybe a small feather from a jacket or pillow.

Just a fuzz. Not a fruit fly.

Small wins.