She’s scampered ahead, splashing in puddles, the pom-pom on her red bonnet bouncing wildly.
But when I round the bend after her… she’s gone.
Time stands still; the brook ceases babbling, its flow halted, and the birds fall silent.
“Jeanie” I scream.
And that great white orb in the sky brightens… aglow with delight… before gently pulsating away behind the swirling grey mist.
I snatch her bonnet, still warm, from the moss-covered fence as the brook bubbles back into life, and the meadowlarks resume their cheery chorus.
Only the blackened hawthorn boughs join me in shedding tears of despair.
Thank you Rochelle for facilitating my participation this week – much appreciated. I’ll get round to my fellow Friday Fictioneers, but possibly a bit later than usual this week – we’re pushing further south for a few days.