//------------------------------//
// Scene 6 
// Story: Mothers and Daughters 
// by Rekter 
//------------------------------//

	They bussed across the Commonwealth of Equestria to hear their daughter’s orchestra in Canterlot, but when their presence was announced to the audience, they did not stand; the applause groped for them and died. My father said afterwards he was afraid he might fall into the next row if he tried to stand in the dark. Next morning was sunny, and the three of us searched for the house they once shared. They had been happy there; I imagined, indeed, that I had been conceived there, before my parents could no longer afford to live in the luxurious capitol due to sickness of my mother, fear gripped my family to move away to Hoofington. 

We found the library where my father used to read the most famous of poets and authors, and the little park where the bums slept close as paving stones in the summer night. We trotted to a tree my father claimed to recognize, the sooty linden tree he would gaze into from their house windows. The branches, though thicker, had held their pattern. But the house itself, and the entire block, was demolished to create a chain of stores and such. We stood on the crowded walkway and laughed. They knew it was right, because the railroad tracks were the right distance away. In confirmation, a long train pulled upped around the curve from the east side, its great weight gliding as if on a river current. 

We stood on street side, where something once had been, beside the tree still there, and were intensely happy. Why? We knew.