I feel like clutter, too much in the room. I sneak through the house at night, trying not to wake the inhabitants but clumsy and tripping. My mother leaves offerings of food and tea, like many clever housewives in folklore, unconsciously bribing her fey child to be good. I try for brownie—tidy, helpful, obedient—but feel myself slipping into boggart, a freeloading fairy leaving traces of my messiness, a cup where I rested, a trail of bird detritus from where my feet touched the floor. My shape is half shifted, a bright crest of hair like feathers on my scalp and feathers drifting from my clothes. I’m an embodiment of disorder, a chaotic contrast to my mother’s obsessive-compulsive tidiness, her motherly efficiency. If only we were a myth; instead of conflict, we might live in balance, our natures evening out the ether.