Fairy Tale
by
Catherine Hobbs
Looking out the kitchen window today
toward the shed.
cropping out of the “lawn.”
This time of day centres her
in a patch of sunlight.
Retreat to busy myself.
Move slowly,
putting away the scant breakfast things
and check several times to see her still there;
tiny sprite
with pigtails springing
off her head,
knees flopped to either side.
TIME passes indecisively,
then gather myself
and leave by the back door to join her.
When I reach her spot,
she looks up at me towering above.
From her angle
She grins, shyly tucking
in her chin slightly
while still looking up at me.
“Hi.” Almost a whisper, awestruck.
“Hello... ...I think you are Ellie.” say,
falling into the dance that
mothers do with other people’s children.
“Yes!” she says, happy to be recognized.
After a moment, though,
“What’s your name?”
That simple opening question.
“...Chris...tine.” sounds definitive to her tiny ears.
“My sister had a sleepover at her best friend Rose’s,” she says in a confidential tone,
then she stops.
We are neither of us used to real conversation.
Then, her precise voice,
“Want to sit down here?”
and she moves over,
inviting me to share my own rock.
“Yes,” not really having a choice about it, suppose.
Watching me lower myself,
she seems slightly shocked at how long
it takes me to
winch
my way
to the
ground.
Here sit, stiffly holding up my knees,
to attempt the loose cross-legged (we’d called it Indian) pose of a younger person.
Once I am settled, though, she smiles again, quite pleased.
Stir around in my muddy brain for something new to say. But without warning,
It lands on the smaller hump of bedrock
to her other side.
The insect rests its wings
wide in the early sun
and breathes.
“Do you like butterflies?”
She nods, grinning widely.
“So do I.”
Almost tell her then that the ancient Greeks thought the soul (Psyche) was a butterfly
but think she’s too young
so stay silent, wondering what they look like to her.
A minute or two passes like this,
then the butterfly continues its
We sit quietly, looking at the sp ace it has left behind it.
Her mood shifts.
“I came through there,”
she informs me pointing proudly at a gap in the cedars.
Then abruptly decides, “I gotta’ go,” hhhhff breathing out in a puff.
Mistress of her own morning for once, I guess.
She gets up quickly and waves,
“Bye!” with an honest open hand and runs away
through the hole in the hedge.
Behind her now
is the glow a small child
leaves in her wake.
Bask in the sunlight
for a few minutes,
then hoist myself creakily to stand.
Haaa. Must be a good day then!
Ooh!
toward the shed.
cropping out of the “lawn.”
This time of day centres her
in a patch of sunlight.
Retreat to busy myself.
Move slowly,
putting away the scant breakfast things
and check several times to see her still there;
tiny sprite
with pigtails springing
off her head,
knees flopped to either side.
TIME passes indecisively,
then gather myself
and leave by the back door to join her.
When I reach her spot,
she looks up at me towering above.
From her angle
She grins, shyly tucking
in her chin slightly
while still looking up at me.
“Hi.” Almost a whisper, awestruck.
“Hello... ...I think you are Ellie.” say,
falling into the dance that
mothers do with other people’s children.
“Yes!” she says, happy to be recognized.
After a moment, though,
“What’s your name?”
That simple opening question.
“...Chris...tine.” sounds definitive to her tiny ears.
“My sister had a sleepover at her best friend Rose’s,” she says in a confidential tone,
then she stops.
We are neither of us used to real conversation.
Then, her precise voice,
“Want to sit down here?”
and she moves over,
inviting me to share my own rock.
“Yes,” not really having a choice about it, suppose.
Watching me lower myself,
she seems slightly shocked at how long
it takes me to
winch
my way
to the
ground.
Here sit, stiffly holding up my knees,
to attempt the loose cross-legged (we’d called it Indian) pose of a younger person.
Once I am settled, though, she smiles again, quite pleased.
Stir around in my muddy brain for something new to say. But without warning,
It lands on the smaller hump of bedrock
to her other side.
The insect rests its wings
wide in the early sun
and breathes.
“Do you like butterflies?”
She nods, grinning widely.
“So do I.”
Almost tell her then that the ancient Greeks thought the soul (Psyche) was a butterfly
but think she’s too young
so stay silent, wondering what they look like to her.
A minute or two passes like this,
then the butterfly continues its
We sit quietly, looking at the sp ace it has left behind it.
Her mood shifts.
“I came through there,”
she informs me pointing proudly at a gap in the cedars.
Then abruptly decides, “I gotta’ go,” hhhhff breathing out in a puff.
Mistress of her own morning for once, I guess.
She gets up quickly and waves,
“Bye!” with an honest open hand and runs away
through the hole in the hedge.
Behind her now
is the glow a small child
leaves in her wake.
Bask in the sunlight
for a few minutes,
then hoist myself creakily to stand.
Haaa. Must be a good day then!
Ooh!