By Lauren Woods

I told her I didn’t need her change, although she sensed enough to turn her unicorn bank upside down and shake it onto my bed. I sent her to play outside. So she sought and brought to me, with such devotion, a brittle stick. A flower chosen because I said I loved yellow. A chalky mushroom fresh from a morning storm, a blood red leaf with droplets still on top, a stew of leaves and grass crushed by rock, leaving smears of green on the wet sidewalk, impressions of past, fleeting lives. A quiet incantation, a nature brew. A secret get rich potion, made up of small parts, chosen because they, too, once sprung up like miracles. A brew of bountiful treasures, discarded by nature and resurrected by small hands. It worked.

Lauren Woods is a Washington, DC based writer, with work in The Forge, Hobart, Lost Balloon, The Offing, and other journals. She tweets @Ladiwoods1