A Letter Unsent
Sunday, July 13th - Late Afternoon
The sun is slowly, steadily making its way towards the horizon, casting the world in shades of gold. Malcolm is seated in his wheelchair, scooting around the rose garden and snipping off the rose hips from the musk roses. The blond almost eleven-year-old is lost in thought, his eyes constantly flitting towards the cloudless sky. It's the start of the third week in July. From everything his mam and da have told his twin brother and him, this should be the week.
As he wheels his way over to another rose bush to collect the hips that will eventually be processed into his family's signature wand oil, his ears perk up by a fluttering of wings and a weight on the back of his chair. He feels his excitement blooming in his chest. Turning to glance towards it, he spies a serious looking tawny owl. He doesn't recognize this one, but he sees in its talons what they've been waiting for - almost.
"Ye're a letter shy, lad." He tells the inscrutable owl as he locks the clippers and sets them into the basket, then collects the envelope. "Ya were given two ta be bringin', aye?" He asks, as if expecting the bird to speak. The excitement is starting to coil into worry as the bird puffs up and clicks its beak, expecting payment - a clear and indignant defensiveness at Malcolm's audacity, questioning its ability to deliver any and all post it's responsible for.
He stares down at the envelope, his hazel eyes scanning the words over and over again. There must be a mistake, he reasons. I do everything with Conall. He's the smart one. If I'm getting a letter, than Conall definitely should be. ...Shouldn't he? But the singular letter is very clear in who its recipient is.
The sun is slowly, steadily making its way towards the horizon, casting the world in shades of gold. Malcolm is seated in his wheelchair, scooting around the rose garden and snipping off the rose hips from the musk roses. The blond almost eleven-year-old is lost in thought, his eyes constantly flitting towards the cloudless sky. It's the start of the third week in July. From everything his mam and da have told his twin brother and him, this should be the week.
As he wheels his way over to another rose bush to collect the hips that will eventually be processed into his family's signature wand oil, his ears perk up by a fluttering of wings and a weight on the back of his chair. He feels his excitement blooming in his chest. Turning to glance towards it, he spies a serious looking tawny owl. He doesn't recognize this one, but he sees in its talons what they've been waiting for - almost.
"Ye're a letter shy, lad." He tells the inscrutable owl as he locks the clippers and sets them into the basket, then collects the envelope. "Ya were given two ta be bringin', aye?" He asks, as if expecting the bird to speak. The excitement is starting to coil into worry as the bird puffs up and clicks its beak, expecting payment - a clear and indignant defensiveness at Malcolm's audacity, questioning its ability to deliver any and all post it's responsible for.
He stares down at the envelope, his hazel eyes scanning the words over and over again. There must be a mistake, he reasons. I do everything with Conall. He's the smart one. If I'm getting a letter, than Conall definitely should be. ...Shouldn't he? But the singular letter is very clear in who its recipient is.
Mr. M. McGregor
Yellow Cabin in the Cypress Grove
Heartwood Arboretum
Toormakeady
Ireland
Yellow Cabin in the Cypress Grove
Heartwood Arboretum
Toormakeady
Ireland
Planting Ideas, Pruning Doubts, Gathering Wonder
Sta - 9 | Eva - 1 | Str - 1 | Wis - 9 | Arc - 6 | Acc - 9