It’s nearly the end of the school holidays, and the little one (who is six) and I set out on an adventure. We take the green bus to Parnell, and step across the road to a large shop window that is full of delight.
A large flock of fairies appears, each of them dancing on golden strings. In spring the imagination comes alive, and I’ve already told the story that prepared the little one for the adventure.
The story is about the lone fairy, who is feeling sad because while she sees other fairies being lovingly chosen and taken home, she is still waiting, feeling that no-one will ever want her.
Could it be that one, or maybe one of these? — the ladybird fairy perhaps, or the pohutukawa fairy?
Or what about the blue elf-like one, or the one in white? Each one is liked best, and the choice feels impossible. So we narrow it down: Should the chosen one be wearing a cap, or have hair? (Hair, definitely). What colour should she be? (Blue or green). What about the wings? (strong) and the dress (frilly)? And so, by process of elimination, slowly the choice is made.
She is put in a special box, and photographed in a flower garden outside a cafe.
She is the surf fairy, one who knows all about the ocean, how to ride a wave and enjoy the sparkling waters. The little one loves the surf too. So her choice is perfect. The adventure is complete and the little piece of spring magic shines in the dark cave of memory.