Enid

I remember these two little girls and the little set of books. Only three. Pink, green and yellow. Older books in a newer cover. A surprise bought home by father. A story to read together, a place to dream about together. A story that brought about the idea of worlds at the tops of trees and the quirky inhabitants of the boughs below.

I remember this bunk bed with emerald silk covers, and how little legs would scramble to find a place over father’s shoulders. A brush in hand, the girls ready for the next chapter to begin. Little giggles filled the small space at how silly it seemed to brush such short hair, no matter how smooth it was.

I remember the great tales of topsy-turvy land and the land of spells, all that made the little girls dream of magic potions and broomsticks.

I remember the thin pages, flimsy under father’s strong fingers.

I remember pleads for more than one chapter a night and the mesmerised trances fallen upon the children.

I remember them, those little girls.

Little indeed.

I remember them.