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If you see fairies, call me out

I will not once, come with doubt

Where they dance, pull me near

Sing your song. They want to hear

If you see fairies, grab my hand

We’ll go together, was always my plan

Photo by veeterzy on Unsplash

Betwixt between a lover’s kiss

Much indeed may go amiss

But if you wait, softly dear

Dark cosmic bliss does too appear

So tip toe lightly

Take great care

For you never know who’ll take you there

A cool night’s light

Wins over history’s might

Honest firm touch

That throws the blush

Don’t be silly

Take the great care

Yes, you know who’ll take you there

Photo by Aditya Chinchure on Unsplash

She pushes through the door, without having to think, reaches back and prevents the slam. A screen door is meant to slam says nanna, but her mom’s still asleep. Everyone is. Flowers bounds through the door after her. Slam. Somewhere nanna smiles broadly.

Out in the open the sun hits their faces. The dew wets their feet. Maeve natters on to Flowers and he bounces and weaves along her path as they make their way towards the garden. It’s the end of spring and everything is about to burst. Not the roses yet. The birds call each other. There’s a slight breeze. As they get closer, she sees them. There are five of them. There are always five. Three brown, two black, and one white. The white one is the smallest, in fact, Maeve wonders if it has grown at all this whole time. The two black ones are the biggest. Flowers is always the target of the brown ones’ torment.

Maeve takes her housecoat off, lays it on the ground, and sits cross legged on top. Flowers starts the usual reintroduction routine nuzzling each long ear to remind himself who is who. When he gets to the small white rabbit he lies as flat as he can on his stomach and sticks out his nose as long and as inviting as he can. With ears squished low to appear as small as possible he tries so hard to stop his long tail from wagging, but it can’t be contained and it vibrates behind him in excitement.

Maeve has no idea where the rabbits came from or where they go when she and Flowers aren’t there. She does remember the first time she saw them. It was the same morning caught mom dancing the first time. Every morning since then, they’ve been here, on the grass behind the garden.

Stretching out on her stomach, Maeve puts her chin in her hands and rubs noses with the brown trio. She giggles as the soft whiskers tickle her skin. How do they twitch their noses like that? Flowers tries to do the same but the bunnies torment him endlessly getting close then dashing away. He whimpers and bounces and begs and, after enough effort has been judged to be given, they finally let him make contact and he bounds straight up in the air with unbridled bliss. He looks like a mess of brown and white fur atop four rocketship paws that spurt him straight up into the air in joy.

What a great way to start the morning.

Maeve flops over on her back. Starts picking petals off a clover. Six heartbeats romp around her. She wonders if mom is up yet.

_____

Down in the kitchen, Rose looks out the window to see Maeve and Flowers in their usual spot. Maeve is on her stomach nuzzling the air and Flowers seems to jumping up and down in excitement at his own shadow, or something.

“You two certainly do love your own company,” she smiles to herself as she moves through her own morning ritual.

She pours herself a cool glass of water and slowly drinks it enjoying its freshness and simplicity. Warms her mug with water from the kettle and pours a long espresso with homemade mylk. As usual, she fill her mug right to the top and has to slurp the first little bit so she can pick it up and wander to the porch.

She steps onto the porch and sinks into their hanging chair. Sipping away she muses out on her youngest and her dog. The relaxation settles in and the pleasing view lets her cells start to expand. It was a long week and, by the end of it, the contraction and restraint were almost too much to bear. Moments like these start the release. She rocks gently and lets it all wash over.

Under her right thigh she feels a scratch and reaches down to investigate. She pulls up a crumpled piece of foolscap. About to put it in the pocket of her robe to throw out later, she notices writing. She unfolds the paper and reads:

pay my respects to grace and virtue
send my condolences to good
give my regards to soul and romance
they always did the best they could
and so long to devotion

“Hmmm.” She leans back, lines resting in her hand. Instinctively her eyes close and the sun hits her face and starts to warm. Her bare legs extend out under her soft pink robe and move the chair back and forth, back and forth.

Good.

“Ha. Send my condolences indeed.” she laughs to herself reveling in the very proposition.

Work was starting to weight heavy. Most days it was feeling like some mythical beast that seemed to flow and contort and reach in, repeatedly, to take a little bit more and a little bit more. Every week seemed to be ‘long’. There was never a destination that she wasn’t rushing to get to and arriving just enough late to complete that chunk of time and still be able to rush to the next. The calendar flip to a new month tried to promise relief but never delivered. She had a constant gnawing craving that she couldn’t satisfy. Meeting after meeting, conversation after conversation, she kept trying to be ‘good’ and it was taking its toll.

She looked up at Maeve and Flowers. Flowers had fallen asleep in the morning sun and Maeve seemed to deep into play, pretending to cradle something in her lap with one arm while pulling at clovers with the other. The way the sun shone on her young blonde hair she looked angelic. She was such a lover. What a gift.

That is ‘good’ thought Rose. Simple, peaceful, true good. The good that she kept trying to unearth at meetings and within the walls of her office seemed so far from that now. How much longer could she know this truth and keep trying? She had been circling this question for months and she was worrying at its ever present preoccupation in her mind.

Rose had been good at a lot of things growing up. Most sports she played she was north of average. Good enough to make the team, usually not the star though. She was also good at school. It didn’t require much effort to get her high marks, though there was never one subject that she felt the need to, or was encouraged to, devour and claim as her own. Friendships were good too, she had boyfriends when she was supposed to. She was even good at going to parties; could hold her own with a liquor bottle yet get herself together to continue on being good the next day.

Eventually Rose was so good she acquired the perfectly admirable career alongside a beautiful, happy, and healthy family. Good for you Rose, good girl. Looking back over your life Rose, we can definitely tally up the score and conclude that yes, indeed, you are without a doubt a good woman.

“So then”, staring out over the grass, she wondered, “why am I not convinced?” Why am I spending my every moment trying to convince everyone and myself of this goodness.

She closed her hand around the paper and placed it in her pocket. Slid her feet into her sandals and put her mug down. Wrapping her arms around herself to keep the breeze out, she wandered down the steps of the porch and out towards the garden. She had a strong urge to bury her nose in the top of her baby’s head and feel the warmth of Flowers leaning up against her leg.

Their backs were towards her, there seemed to be a deep conversation unfolding, but as she approached they both jerked backwards and turned around to look and see her walking towards them.

“Mom!! You scared them away!”

“Scared what hon?”

Maeve and Flowers stared briefly into the thicket along the property line then jumped up and wrapped themselves around their mom’s legs. Rose bent down and took a deep inhale of the top of Maeve’s head. Those cells expanded again. With her arm around Flowers she stared out at the thicket too. There was nothing there.

She walked in the door, threw her keys and phone on the side table and landed on the couch. She put her feet up, let her head fall back and closed her eyes. The smell from the kitchen was fantastic and the cool air blew in from the window.

He walked over and rested his hands on her shoulders from behind. They instinctually moved forward just enough. He leant close and kissed her on her right temple. His whiskers were the perfect mix of soft and coarse. His scent was home and was enough to let the rest of her body relax.

“He left you another one.” he said and a long stem rose landed on the coffee table in front of her.

“Well you have to admire his persistence.” she said as she leaned forward and picked it up.

She didn’t used to like roses. They were so traditional. So scripted and common. Everyone liked roses just like everyone liked diamonds. How dull.

Leaning back again she twirled it in her fingers and stared at it. She smiled remembering the last time she was given a single red rose, well the last time before the run of these ones. It was highschool. Was she dating someone or not quite yet? How did she even get it? Did it arrive at her house like these ones? She reaches back and searches her memory. Digging past old boxes, dust rising as each is moved beyond. Did her dad find it before she did? Anyway, there was a rose. It was from someone it shouldn’t have been from. Someone who had her in mind and went in search of a single flower and placed it at her threshold. The beauty of it all then was, regardless of the presumed imbalance of power, regardless of the height and broad grin, that she couldn’t have cared less. She wanted neither the rose, neither the man. Today, though, she smirks. How delicious to draw the attention of a soul.

Intriguingly, before this all started, she started wanting roses around her all the time: in her garden growing wild, in vases on her desk, and their colour dripping off her nails. Her writing came easier when they were on the desk staring back. The way their perfect petals fanned open on such sturdy stems for so long. They endured more than most flowers, whether cut or planted. These were not the roses she gazed upon as a child or teen, these were different. She was starting to understand the allure.

Again, she put down the flower.

She pushed herself off the couch and walked over to him. She leaned against his back as he tended to the stove. When you were young flipped on on the player. What an anthem. She could tell, forehead resting between his shoulder blades, that he was smiling.

Photo by James Lee on Unsplash