DirtShe had an affinity for the oddest things. A bit of string was put into an old matchbox along with a ribbon that I’d once tied in her hair. Between our house and the bus stop, she never failed to find some bit of treasure, some souvenir of our morning that must be treasured forever.

I have no idea whether she kept them all.

My memories of those days are gossamer threads now. My walks to the bus stop are uneventful. I avoid the mud puddles just like I always did, but no longer do I have to steer her clear of anything that might soil her carefully pressed jumper.

I often wonder if she had to empty her pockets of treasures every afternoon, carefully returning the items to each of her own three children. I wonder if she steered them clear of mud puddles, or whether she gave in as I so often wanted to and let them enjoy a good splash.

Tomorrow I will press my best dress, and I will go to a party. I will meet a treasure more precious than any I ever dreamed of, my first great-granddaughter. I will tell her all the secrets. I will promise her all the treasures.

And on the way home, I will splash in a puddle.

Just this once.

This bit of flash fiction was written for the Write On Edge prompt “Gossamer” and “Affinity.”

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