The Fox and the Slippers

by Connor Gibson

The girls leave my slippers outside overnight. They watch through the window as a fox slinks out of the bushes and drags one away. Later, they find its chewed remains and set up a shrine, laying down winter crocuses in mourning.

The crumpled bundle of notes they bring their mother is nowhere near enough. She kisses their tear-stained cheeks, whispers in their ears.

Christmas morning, they hand me a printer-paper card. On its front, a crayon drawing of a fox, brown circles on its feet. The younger’s handwriting— the S’s flipped backwards— reads SLIPPERS.

My feet have never felt warmer.

Connor Gibson is a junior at Emerson College pursuing a BA in Publishing. When he was a child, a fox ate his father's slippers. Tragedy plus time equals comedy.

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