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Once upon my ninth year, I was Guinevere
on a cellar quest. Noble Arthur and his
knights fade to the back of imagination,
relegated to the backseat chore of cheer-
leader. Queen Mother (Grandma Gault) says
with a regal wave, “the need is great, little one.”

At the basement door I hesitate mere
seconds, then descend. One foot on the stairs
and I am transported to an ancient canyon.
Grit is between my toes and musty air in my ear.
From the canyon I enter a “cave” and gasp, there is,
lurking in the corner, a spider playing “Saracen”
and I leap to hide behind a “rock” of winter coats.

Finally deciding I have nothing to fear,
I creep to the rear of the “cave,” blowing hairs
from my eyes. I see the “crypt’s” foundation
and I lift the lid to gaze within freezer’s frontier.
I discover my “Holy Grail” and capture it as
I turn to go back – my arduous journey nearly done.

The last strands of dynamic daydream disappear
when I return to the kitchen where grandma has
arranged fancy cups and spoons like a soda fountain.
With a hiss, grandma removes the cap from the root beer.
And as she pours, ice cream bursts with bubbles and fizz.
In my mind’s scrapbook I treasure this memory of summer fun
created in a long ago lake house with a quest for a root beer float.



Holly AKA Red Writing Hood