by Monique Rardin Richardson

Across the Victorian threshold

I escaped into a fairy's dwelling

in my floral dress, tights, and velvet choker.

Can you smell the sage?

Lace linens, organic offerings,

and fresh cut wildflowers adorned the table.

Candles flickered against the walls

like pixie dust and a sunset traveled

through the kitchen door.

Nikki, her daughter, washed greens for a salad.

In greeting, she cupped my face,

brought her head to mine and called me a goddess.

I became beautiful, strong and capable of anything.

It's what her mother taught her.

Sarah McLachlan's voice enveloped the room and we danced.

Three different women twirling

with visions

of lush meadows, red poppies,

and fairies

circling our floral headpieces.

When Diane’s guests arrived

wine was sipped, laughter dispersed,

and tales of the theatre entertained.

And I savored every drop of the secret

salad dressing made with tangerine.

Not wanting the spell to break,

we took turns sharing talents

Serenaded with Sinatra, monologues galore

until the clock struck midnight.

One by one, characters departed,

until it was just me, Nikki and Diane

stretching on the floor and treated

by soothing hands on our shoulders

to drift peacefully off to sleep.