The loss of my Aunt has uncovered deep wells of emotion and memory, thus the desire to rummage through my treasure box.
I have searched through the closets and finally found the beat up, old, cardboard box that holds my collected treasures. Here I keep pictures and momentos, random bits and pieces like old receipts from the 1920s and an 1895 ledger used in Great Grandfather's business.
I am spending a lot of time thinking about my Aunt. She was just fifteen years old when I was born. Pictures of my childhood slowly well into consciousness, I take them out of my treasure box one by one. The pictures show a little girl with her Aunts. In each picture the little girl stares at the camera, blinking in the light. I was that little girl.
The Aunts in the pictures are smiling; they surround the little girl with love, with attention. The Aunts make the little girl a dress made completely from maple leaves that they pick from the trees as they weave. The little girl stands very still as the Aunts weave a magic gown, leaf by leaf, around her small body. The little girl lets the Aunts touch her: with their hands, with their love. The Aunts laugh, they smile. If there are real fairies in the forests of my childhood, they are my Aunts.