Sunday Scribblings: Honest

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is honest.

St. Patrick's Day has always added a bit of charm to our home. The children who dally and play in this place believe that the devilish little man will find his way to them to offer a surprise. For us, it is a sort of preparation for Spring Solstice, where we celebrate with seeds rather than eggs. A sprig of life, fertility, and consciousness. The earthly flow. Rebirth of a hopeful cycle.

This is when we search for the tinniest fields of clover and create a seat for him to rest in, with hopes that he will visit us. The children here (the older three most conscious, the little two still dreamy in their days where they dance in dulcet air) know that the Leprechaun man does not always arrive in the most gentle way. For the Irish, he is of the nasty bunch. Not as vicious as the headless of the Otherworld, the ones who whisk around on horses shouting the names of mortals who will die. Yet, this mischievous little creature evokes suspicion of trust. For this reason the children work hard at making his seat most comfortable.

Their wish is quite simple. They appreciate the clover cookies glittered in emerald colored sugar and the wee bits of chocolate that he leaves behind. Unlike the tooth-fairy, they do not understand what he takes(Dad and I have not added that part in yet. Maybe it will be part of the tradition next year. Knowing Dad, he will venture to make it a bit creepy).

This year the little fella did not come. The clover was buried under powder. A St. Paddy's Day snow. A light whisper away from Spring and Father Winter will not let go. The children believe that the Leprechaun lost his way.

Honestly, Mother neglected to come up with much to offer this year.

Actually, I sat around waiting for one of the children to break his fever. He laid in bed all day, dead asleep, pausing only to ask for water. And that lucky Irish evening when Dad and I sat around believing that we had brought no such wonder into the day, the oldest child woke in a flushed fever, spewing his supper.


This St. Patrick's Day the children were frenzied and weary, the clover drowned in snow, and Dad and I did nothing more than toast a reckless cup of Guinness(watching Boondock Saints), and the leaflet man did not show.

When we woke the next morning, delightfully so, we realized that he most certainly had granted a day of treasure and magic.