The Lone Hawthorne Tree in the Field


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

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