Fairy flowers and a manor house. Tree-root-laced paths, nodding buds, and a mossy cottage tucked into the dell. It had been three years since Amelia and I were here. The last time, she was in an umbrella stroller (this is not the place for an umbrella stroller), newly walking and I was afraid to let her out lest she fall into the creek. This time she flitted and flashed between the trees, racing down the paths, dancing under the arbor, quacking at the duck, building a nest for the wood sprites who were sure to come out after we left. It's an enchanted place, for sure. The river was high and green and foggy with spring run-off. The rickety, metal bridge was up, lofted high above the water for another month or two, I would expect, so we couldn't go across to the cottage or to the fireplace. It's been, apparently, the third-wettest March on record. They said that spring was getting a late start; everything was about a month behind. No matter. I sat on a bench by the creek and she whirled and twirled around me. She knocked on the pretend door to my pretend house and I invited her in for pretend tea. She gave me pretend cookies. I gave her real kisses. I hope the spirits of dearest John and Lilla Leach, creators of this magical glade, were smiling down on this little forest fairy and her fox from above.
Her sweater, Little Buds, made almost five years ago and fitting perfectly now is, once again, detailed here.
