Come in, come in, the river mist will be gone soon enough, but here you’ll find some tales, some warmth so make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the pot, or perchance, you brought some wee dram of your own.
Please sit by the window, you’ll have the best view, and easy hearing. Ignore the cats, no matter what they say, and don’t open the window for the tapping crows.
I’ll be working at the table in the corner, if you have any need, or she knocks upon the door. And until you stop by again, may your wonderings be bold and your imaginings be wise.
Until your next visit, until the next photograph, the next 12-line story, good fortune and safe wanderings.
Urn in Snow
Thera Lindstrom pushed back into the soft aging chair, pulling the warm knitted afghan up across her lap, covering her legs.
She felt a soft thud as the yellow stripped tabby jumped down from the bookcase onto the arm of the chair.
The lights flickered as Thunder curled into a sleepy circle upon Thera’s warm lap, neither cat nor woman caring about electric lights.
Outside the cottage, snow, falling for the past five hours, had obliterated all the clinging vestiges of fall color.
It was a soft, dry snow, falling straight and slow, simplifying the landscape, simplifying her life.
Thera, pleased with the coming of the snow, settled down with a book, a pot of tea and a plate of warm biscuits and honey.
At one in the afternoon she knew there were many hours before the moon rise, if the snow clouds allowed, the moon would shine bright upon the world outside.
Six months Thera had waited for this snow fall, this silenced day before the rise of the full snow moon.
During the hot humid days of summer, Thera had tended the yard, the herb garden, watching the weedy edge of the circle where the urn had stood before it disappeared when spring arrived and the last of the winter’s snow had melted.
If she’d known the urn held the key, Thera, and Thunder, would be back at school instead of sitting, waiting for snow and moonlight, having spent more time away from home than ever planned.
As the afternoon wore on, the snow fell deeper, slowed and finally stopped falling altogether, the spent clouds slipping south.
Thunder stirred, jumped to the windowsill, looking out into the white blanketed world where Thera, and cat, saw the urn, askew, a bit of snow clinging to it’s carving, and Thera asked the cat, “Will we leave tonight Thunder, or hide the key somewhere else?”