I was six years old. The last day I saw the unicorn, it was on my grandmom's porch, a silver magic shadow in the oceanic darkness.
We had read a book, I can't remember the name. The illustrations were vibrant and bedazzled. The book was about all the mythical creatures with horns, and the habitats where they lived. The ones that flew, that swam, that hunted, that roamed.
My grandma had the famous medieval tapestry, the red and gold embroidered print of the unicorn pastured in the stall, its neck caught in a circle of thorns. It hung above her sitting room couch, next to the piano.
My grandma's house was full of magic, it walked and flew in the forest behind her house.
The unicorn's eyes watched us through the frosted panes. It watched us play tickle fight on the couch, cuddle in my grandma's chair, make banana bread in the oven.
The last night I saw the unicorn, we both knew it was goodbye.