A Musing (46-60 Years Old-A )

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"A Musing" by @WriterAEF 

Copyright 2019

Pronunciation guide:

"Eithne" sounds like "En-ya."

"Ouch!" I softly growl to myself, pulling my woodchip-speckled head out from the rotted, hollow log. "Crimey, that was stupid."

Nothing like a solid knock on the head to start the day.

I teeter on my haunches for a few seconds before toppling over onto my ample derriere in defeat. "Umph."

Planting my hands behind me with a defeated sigh, I loosely trail my fingertips through the dry, sandy dust, and ponder the futility of this exercise.

"How did I let Brigid talk me into this?" I whisper outloud to myself.

Not ready to let me rest on my laurels, said woman appears with a too- cheerful smile, carrying a bushel of twigs and dry wood. Some bright, green moss adorns the top of her pile, like a green cheery on top of a Mother Nature sundae.

"Here we go, Eithne," she cheers unnaturally.

Brigid acts like it's normal for arthritic women our age to go traipsing through the woods to make fairy houses at daylight's break.

Plagued with writer's block, I'm petrified that my days at the firm are numbered. I haven't turned out anything decent in a month. Convincing me into this flight of fancy is Brigid's way of trying to help the situation.

As fingers of God suddenly break through the emerald canopy above, however, catching the swirls of silver and illuminescent white in her coiling, silk hair, Brigid's profile radiates with angelic joy. It's like a switch has been thrown by the universe, smacking me upside the head with the obvious.

The wake up call I needed has arrived, and I can't help but think that perhaps our hunt for inspiration may be successful after all, crazy as my favorite sprite's methodology may be.

I smile up at Brigid's unbridled brilliance.

"Pass me one of those sponges of moss, will you?" I ask her with a grateful grin. "My muse is coming home today, and she needs a proper home."

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