There had been many births now and Elm had started to sculpt with the disused ectoplasms. She found it a perfect medium. A little like clay, but with the colour and consistency of lard. Her son had taken on many forms. All how she imagined him to look at that particular moment.
Buca is 5 years old. Something for him is not right about his mothers interpretations. He can see how it is physically correct, but would change a few things.
“mum, I’ve been wondering something?”
Elm turns to the greyish substance hovering from her right ear. She asks what it wonders.
“how can I become a girl?….I want longer hair and a dress like you……I want you to call me Grace.”
Elm smiles at her son and nods with understanding. She is not shocked or concerned by this. They talk at length about transgender, X and Y chroma zone’s, hormones, individualism, bodies, feelings and their close proximity.
At that, Buca’s ectoplasm became limp and sinks down through the air. It becomes heavy and lifeless on the right side of Elm’s head. With a little shake, the substance falls to the floor.
Elm had heard it could be common in little boys. They would wear cardigans on their heads to represent long hair, try on their mother’s dresses and a little make up. Read ‘sparkle’ magazine for fun.
Elm would respect her son’s wishes. She picked up the substance and started to sculpt it into feet. This would be the birth of Grace.