Bonny was a tiny lass; born on Saint Patrick’s Day in a wagon with honeycomb
blankets and a tattered canvas for shelter. Her parents had outwitted the
bandits on the pathway to their future. Her mother had driven the wagon, while
her father swept the trail behind them with branches and rocks large enough to
blur the dirt road. The land was hard, as if granting clues about what
lay ahead if they were brave to continue.
Her parents had passed one lone tree in a field of green. An imaginable
gateway between mortals and faeries. Her mother kept her prayers and wishes
deep inside her soul while singing Gaelic lullabies to the sleeping baby in her
womb. Against the present of snakes, she hoped they were on their way to their
homeland of Ireland.
Impossible, of course.
The future lay ahead in California. The city of gold and silver. Bonny’s
birth sealed her father’s decision that he was correct for the travel.
Bonny knew nothing of this, except for the memory that was deep in her
mother’s soul. The yearning. The fear and courage. And most of all, the love
for her, her father, and for the kindhearted wee folk. The very wee folk who
sprinkled fairy dust on Bonny’s nose so she could giggle through their passage
home.
Photo of Zion State Park via T. Gillmore
