How can I be lost? This is the path I always follow when going home from grandmother’s house. The trail should be right here. The trees surround me and it’s so quiet not a squirrel or bird have I seen or heard. Shadows blanket the ground. I can barely make out the little hills which should be right here. It must be later than I think. I haven’t eaten anything all day, except for the piece of gingerbread grandmother gave me; which explains my sick stomach and the salty taste in my mouth. She and I laughed, chatted, and enjoyed each other’s company. We walked in her aromatic garden admiring the early spring flowers in the bright sunlight, baked the gingerbread, our mouths watering in anticipation and chose the colours for a new sweater she will knit. It was one of my favourite times. Being with grandmother is always a holiday.
When I left her, my heart felt like a feather and I remember singing a little tune as I skipped from her cottage. My heart is not light now; it is pounding like a big kettle drum. If I don’t find my way home soon I’ll have to sleep here, away from warmth, comfort and food. Wait! Is that a pitter patter of footsteps close by? My eyes’ saccadic movements search for what I could swear I heard. My little basket which I thought empty must be carrying bags of flour, judging by its weight. Whoops, I stumbled and almost tripped on my red cloak; good thing I didn’t fall. I see a shimmering stone up ahead. I will sit and rest, and ponder what to do.
Something tapped me on the shoulder. “Hello, little girl.” A blue eyed wolf stood before me. “Are you lost?”
A ritual implement
Blogophilia Week 44.5 topic: My Favorite Holiday
(Hard, 2pts): Include a ritual implement
(Easy, 1pt): Incorporate an Elton John song title