Mother Goose

It was a sunny October day in Greenglade, and all was well. The birds were chirping, the bees were buzzing, the doe was grazing, and little Lily Jane was fast asleep under the age-old willow tree. Beneath the encompassing branches and atop the embracing roots, she was having the most extravagant dream. A dream only the perfume of colorful wildflowers and the gentle rustling of the swaying vines could create. A dream only little Lily Jane could dream. 

She dreamed of a goose. Not just any goose, but a radiant goose. A beautiful bird with eyes that took you to the depths of the sea. Her feathers glistened in the warm sunlight and her sweet smell brought back the days of milk and cookies and warm, ironed blankets. 

Little Lily Jane was intrigued. 

She followed the pretty goose to an abandoned house, the house Lily Jane grew up in. The bird looked over her wing and back to the house again, clueing that she wanted Lily to follow her into the cottage. 

Lily opened the weathered door with a creak and stepped inside. It was exactly how she remembered it. The flower drapes on the windows were still closed tightly.

The two bulky armchairs and the soft sofa were crowding the fireplace. Even the fairytales were still stacked in the same neat little pile. 

Once again, the friendly goose beckoned over her wing. Once again, Lily Jane followed. They strolled over to the smaller of the two armchairs and Lily Jane climbed up on it. The goose wandered off but did not beckon over her wing, so Lily stayed put. 

A few minutes later, the goose came thumping back carrying a very familiar teacup. Inside, black liquid stirred, not quite settled. Lily Jane took the cup from the bird with a nod of thanks and took a sip. 

It was exactly how she remembered it. 

Cinnamon apples, sweet strawberries, vanilla cake, and every glorious taste you can think of was somehow all in the same sip of tea. “Magic,” Mama would say. But, she couldn’t now. She never could again. 

The goose waddled over to the overflowing bookshelf and started scanning the titles. At last, seeming to find what she was looking for, she stopped. Slowly, gently, she started to peck the most worn and tarnished book on the shelf. 

Peck, peck, peck. 

Three times. Mama would always tap that same book three times with her finger before picking it up. Calmly, little Lily Jane picked up the book. She turned the page and started reading aloud.

As she read, fascinating characters of all shapes and sizes popped out of the book. Some had shells, and some were holding pumpkins. Others made webs or danced to a tune. The affectionate goose curled up around her ankles and drifted off to sleep. 

“Aaaaahhhhh,” sighed Lily, waking from her dream. Speaking to the doe, she said, “What a lovely dream.” And it was. She stretched her legs and clambered up, using the swaying tree for balance. The rocking willow, always hypnotic, caused a sense of calm to wash over her. She made the same walk she had made in her dream, down to the cottage. 

Past the same hills and the same ducks she went, away from the bright sky and beyond the bounds of the dank swamp, all the way out yonder where home used to be. A home that used to be loved. Little Lily Jane walked straight through the entrance that held the creaky door, right to the plush armchair. And, unsurprisingly, there sat in her mother’s chair, the same chair Lily had just been sitting in, a goose. Her mother goose.