I knew the fairies loved my mother's gardens, even though I spent all summer unsuccessfully waiting to catch a glimpse of them. My next door neighbor had given me a popup alphabet book of fairies for my birthday and I read and read that book, studying the flower fairies and imagining them cantering through my mother's pinks and asters. Positive they could not resist the enchanting call of my backyard, I even left a brand new shiny copper penny amongst the wild violets near my favorite pine tree. I pleaded for them to show me their faces and accept my gift, but I never heard them singing or saw a blade of grass stir. And yet, in my child's imagination, I knew they were there. They existed in the call of the wind and the rattling of the windmill. They lived in the shadows beneath the cement pagoda in the rock garden. They slept upon the soft mounds of moss growing at the base of the cedars. They rode on the backs of the red winged blackbirds and jousted with the robins seeking worms after a warm rain in the summer.
I was positive they would come and dance under the light of the full moon. They would accept my gift and one day soon, I would awake to find a tiny face peering in at me from my bedroom window. Maybe, it would be a girl fairy wearing a tiny rose petal for a hat and clothed in the shiny green leaves of my mother's roses. Maybe, it would be a boy fairy sporting a jaunty acorn hat and carrying a sewing needle as a sword attached to the piece of string he used as a belt. It didn't matter. I knew they would come.
And then one day, I stopped checking for fairies in my mother's gardens and I went to school and forgot about the copper penny. Now as an adult, when I walk through my mother's flowers, smell their sweet nectar, and listen to the crickets softly chirping and the birds rustling in the trees above, I wonder if I would find that penny in the backyard or if I went digging, would it simply have vanished. I like to think it disappeared. I still like to believe in the fairies, even though I can't see them. It's too alluring to be out in nature and not have the spark of my writer's imagination flare, reminding me of the child within.
They're out there. How could they resist such beautiful gardens? I can't
As always, happy writing and happy reading to all!