The Sleeping Garden

This summer there were many fairy rings in our yard. Mushrooms popped through the earth in ringlets of white. I am afraid that I took them lightly and may have crossed the boundaries of one or two. I thought of the stories I had read as a child and remembered the legend that warned of these rings in the grass. The folklore surrounding the fairy rings labeled them as a place of danger and that one who entered would become cursed. The form that the curse took varied from tale to tale. The tradition I remembered the most was that people who stepped into the ring were said to die at a very young age, or go into the fairy land and loose time and memory. I feel as though I may have caused both of these to happen to us. Frost you have died far too young, as young as one can die. And I have lost so much time with you, and new memories of you can never grow for me. I feel as though the world I live in now has changed. It looks the same, but I will never see it in the same light. Some may call it silly to believe that such an act could have anything to do with loosing you, but I look to every possible reason that you may be gone. The idea that the spirits of nature may have taken you away to their sleeping garden is a notion that romances my mind when logic can no longer humor me. Despite the air of danger about this legend, there is something beautiful about the thought of the earth taking back what it has created. You have followed the path of so many before you Frost, and from this path great stories have been born.
Night, night Frost
Mama loves you.