It was barely light as we crept out of the sleeping house, the rising sun nothing more than streaks of color to the east. The morning was rich with smells of summer, warm and redolent with the promise of the day to come. As we went down the path the birds clucked and peeped at our passing, not quite ready to rouse themselves yet, but aware of their world. We paused at the edge of the meadow, the monochromatic landscape seeming to wait with indrawn breath for the life the sun would bring. We settled on the damp grass, not noticing the dew soaking our jeans. My Mother whispered “This is perfect for fairies; they come to drink the dew out of the flowers and must hurry before the sun dries it.” And then color and life swept over the horizon, the sun rising like a conquering hero, bathing the meadow of wildflowers with all the colors of the world, and the dewdrops, sparkling like a king’s ransom of precious jewels on every flower and leaf. “Here they come” she whispered, and the beauty and absolute perfection of the moment caused the breath to catch in my chest. A tiny sparkle on a nearby blossom, I could make out the gossamer wings, and as she dipped to the dew caught in the petals I could see the perfect beauty of her tiny features. And then the joy turned to horror as a terrible noise ripped apart the serenity of the meadow, and as the shreds of the tattered dream dissolved around me I tried desperately to hang on to the magic. But it was gone, and as I sat up to turn off the alarm, I could feel the tears on my face, and mourned for the death of a child’s imagination, overrun by the realities of life.
My daughter walked into my room just then, and as she smiled at me - a little of the magic came back.