Pardon The Remembrance:

Are there really chickens clucking about in the yard? I tell you, there are. There are.

I heard them yesterday like faraway stowaways, scampering in the attic of a befuddled mind, that still hoards the muddle of a scrambled cuddle, from friendships rekindled, when I was nine.

Then caught in the garden of a pardoned remembrance, I lost myself for the longest age, in a picture page of a forgotten moment.

And where I waited once more, for the fairies to come to tea...and from where cherubs stayed like mermaids, on the sunlit shore of a slip-slide sea, the boistrous waves would call me as brave as in my dreams, to ride on the gleam of a happy sunbeam.

And there were animals at play inviting me to stay in a Melodies cartoon, from where I could fly on a carpet to the moon.

And now in writing for children, I remember these old friends that fled so shyly without goodbyes in the mix of a teary, merry end. From the child in me, I hear an old memory inviting and calling, then falling and slipping...into the power of a distant hour.

Are there really chickens clucking in the yard? I tell you with the jolt of a happy start. Indeed, there are. There are...

- Susan Abraham -