When I was little my father built a “birdhouse” for the sparrows he wanted to photograph. When I say birdhouse it was more like a soapbox with a roof replete with a crossbeam. The sort of thing that houses a wishing well had there been a rope and bucket attached to the beam. I became convinced that if I woke up in those purple morning moments where the morning glory unfurls itself then I would catch the fairies at play.
I would leave little gifts in the rafters. Dresses made of paper towels and ribbons. Candy sustenance for their long days of dancing. Walnut shells in the event they needed new beds or sturdy boats. A collection of leaves and petals: sail-shaped ones for adventures, dainty ones for garland and decorating, large ones for home building, spring flowers made more fragrant after drying in the sun, and spiky ones as a defense from mice and other small land dwellers. Sure some of the items were missing the next morning but I never did catch them at their games.
I suppose as we grow up we get weary of expecting magic without evidence otherwise. We are told things like sums and grammar are very important and our days are better spent unraveling those mysteries. Magic fades slowly across bells rung for lunch, recess and thank the gods the ending of desk trapped days.
Then in the middle of 1/3 of your life passing, you find that perhaps magic had been there all the time. You start to curse all those early mornings you left to the overachiever runner types. Then you wonder what resistance was possible to you.
What would have I done if I had caught them all those years ago? Would I have let every piece of me be touched by wonder? I would marvel at all I didn't know. What else was true? Dragons and magic rings? Cursed items passed down lines of magical beings?
As Emily before me; I, too, dwell in possibilities.