Blu was fifteen now, and Aspen wondered where her child went. He was quieter now, and he seemed to get clumsier every week playing with Lilac. But Aspen was sick, and though her worries for her son cut through her illness-induced haze, she forgot about the concerns as often as she forgot to eat- which was often enough that Blu had taken up the responsibility of her caretaker.

As Aspen’s brain slowly turned to liquid, Blu would spend hours in the early morning humming little songs to her and grooming her unkempt feather.

“Don’t worry Mamá,” He would whisper to her as he brushed out her greying curls,

“I’ll be alright,”

Oh if it was only true.