My best friend, Cassie, and I built a village for the fairies who lived in the woods. We took little sticks, broke them into even smaller pieces, brought them into my basement and we hot glue gun-ed them into little houses. A storm, the ‘blizzard of ‘96’, came through New Jersey and we could only imagine what it had done to our fragile little town-- to the fairies who lived there, huddled up close to one another, their leaf-thin wings flapping, tearing as snowflakes took down their new homes.
I rarely approach that part of our woods for fear of finding that indeed it is lost--in the same way that I fear coming across the spot where my dog Daisy--where my dog Coco, too, is buried. These images help reconcile my new, often disorienting experience with ‘home,’ with family, where the sacred can still be found, where I am asked to consider resurrection, where the crickets, unaware of me and my anticipation of them, continue to sing.
