We were all born into a dying world. One of my first memories of an actual conversation with my mother was about the foxes. In my neighborhood in a Miami suburb where I grew up, occasionally at night we would catch a glimpse of something dark and swift in the night. A shadow, barely larger than a cat, would dart from shrub to shrub across the manicured lawns of the neighborhood. If you startled it on an evening walk, the shadow would turn to you, eyes glowing like gems before darting off into the darkness.

These shadows were the grey foxes native to Miami. “Look! A fox!” My mom would whisper. Desperately I would search, but as a child I was often too slow to pick their silhouettes out from the backdrop of night. I was desperate to see this magical creature, the fox. And while I did on occasion catch sight of them, as I grew older they became noticeably more rare. “The foxes are going away,” she told me. “People don’t like them and they are driving them out.”

My first memory of a conversation with my mother was to learn that magic was being driven out of the world. What a sad place to be born into.

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