The crayons had been broken into gnarled bits, still functional but different from the ones fresh out of the box. Even her small hands were too clumsy to grip the chunks of wax.
"New crayons, mama?" She took the cupcake pan from the cupboard, alluding to the show we'd watched a few weeks earlier about the boy who melted down his old crayons to make new crayons. We sat on the kitchen floor and peeled the wrappers from dozens of mangled crayons, letting her decide which color combinations should be melted down and brought together in the metal cups.
The heat of the oven melted the crayons down into something simpler, twelve melted pools of colored wax and toddler fingerprints. And once they were done, and cooled, they spilled onto the counter. A dozen discs that were a little different from the other crayons, but that colored just the same.
"These are my new crayons, right? We ... we remaked them."
"Rebuilt. We rebuilt them, Birdy."
They don't color exactly like the old crayons - sometimes a rogue spot of orange shows up when you expected blue.
"They're not the same as the other crayons, Birdy. But they still work. They still color and work fine, right?"
"Right. I love my new crayons. We made them in the oven." She paused to grab one of the discs and laughed when the seemingly red crayon colored her elephant picture in purple. "My new crayons is just right. Rebuilded."