"Dragonflies are good luck," his grandmother used to say. "They are fairies' horses. Their wings spread wishes and wonder."

He remembered that and not much else about her. They would sit in the grass by the shore of the lake. He used to spend three weeks every summer out at his grandparents house. They picked blueberries and chopped wood, made cookies and walked in the woods.

He was an adult now. They were long dead.

His daughter stood in front of him, frowning, hands onm hips. "That's not true, daddy. Dragonflies are dragonflies, not horses. And fairies don't exist."

He wondered how a child could have so little sense of wonder.

They walked along a bit further down the path. His hands in his pockets, thinking of ways to convince her. They stopped at a bend in the trail and sat on some rocks.

"My grandma told me that," he said. "And she never lied."

A dragonfly landed