Poppy and the Pocket of Small Wonders

Poppy woke with the smell of toast and the feeling that something small and very important should be waiting in her hand. The morning was soft and golden outside her window, and her little house hummed with the quiet clatter of spoons and the gentle thump of her father's laundry basket. Poppy sat up, tugged her patchwork coat over her pajamas, and felt for the pocket she kept close to her heart. It was a pocket sewn inside the left side of the coat, with a tiny star stitched on the edge where her grandmother had mended a hole. Poppy always put her five favorite things there before she went to school or to the shop or to the playground: a blue button that looked like a piece of the sky, a pebble that had been smooth as a sleeping whale, a paper boat she had folded in class with two little crayon sails, a feather so soft it could make a whisper, and a very small brass bell that sang a happy, tiny ring when she moved.

Each object had a story. The blue button came from a coat her grandmother wore when she told stories about birds that knew the names of flowers. The pebble came from the round, windy beach where Poppy had stood with cold toes and watched the tide tiptoe away. The paper boat had been made in a busy classroom with Mrs. Alder, and everyone in the class had written wishes on the inside before folding them up. The feather had been tucked into Poppy’s pocket the morning she found it, because that same day she had helped a fledgling back into a nest. The bell had been a prize at the autumn fair when Poppy had won a ribbon for being brave enough to try the small spinning wheel.

Poppy learned to breathe with her pocket. When she felt nervy about climbing the apple tree, she touched the bell. When she felt small in a crowd, she held the pebble. When nighttime felt very deep, she slid the boat against her thumb like a little talisman. There were grown-up things on the kitchen table—newsprint and clinking cups—but there was also this small, private map in the inside of Poppy's coat. It told her what to do when her knees trembled or when she wanted to say hello but her tongue felt stuck. Without thinking, while she walked into the kitchen, Poppy slipped her hand into the pocket to pat each treasure. Her fingers met only cloth.

For a full blink she thought she had not pushed far enough. She pushed again. She whispered the names of the things like a counting spell: blue button, pebble, paper boat, feather, bell. There was nothing but the soft lining and, somewhere near the seam, a warm place from where her hand had rested so often. Poppy's heart pressed itself up against her ribs all at once, like a small bird. The kitchen clock ticked. Her father asked if she would like jam on her toast. Poppy could not answer.

She emptied the pocket onto the table with hands that shook a little. Her fingers felt very loud as they moved. They touched the table, the bread, the cup, and there was only a small scrap of paper, folded twice, and a few dry bits of leaf tucked against the hem. The scrap was not one of her things. It had a tiny drawing on it: a round, cozy nest with a little door and a curl of smoke, and beside the nest two tiny paw prints, like the marks left by a small, quick animal. Poppy picked up the scrap and the leaf bits between her fingertips and stared at them as if they might tell her where to find the rest. Outside, something small rustled along the garden path.