My name is dappled sunlight, slinking through the grasp of the trees to caress the forest floor. It purrs like a satisfied cat on its favourite cushion, ginger paws curled up and tucked away under all the fluff. It tastes of rich, melted butter on hot crumpets, its texture the froth of a cappuccino on a breezy April morning. It is the pavement outside a smoky bar in New Orleans, the honeysuckle tones of the trumpet daring you to peek in.
If I had been Annabelle, feeding baby ducks in the pond with granny, I would be a delicate forget-me-not. I would tie mauve ribbons in my pigtails and wear navy skirts with pleats. The sound would be a little girl running down the road, giggling. A girl tasting of parma violets, or candy canes, or sherbet lemons. I would take ballet, tap, modern; my smell little black polished tap shoes, clicking together in glee.
afayewithwords 