We took grandfather’s great old picnic basket and filled it with bread still hot from the oven, honey and vinegar to dip the pieces in, jars of jams and jars of milk from the sheep—
—which ambushed us down by the river, and stole one of the jars of jam by its waxcloth seal—
—which we did manage to retrieve, but not before a good hour’s silliness chasing her though the wildflowers—
—and we spent all the rest of the morning laying in the shade of the old elderberry tree, with our feet in the sun, reading our favorite poems.
And later, after we had dozed off, to dream within this dream (joined by our fluffy thief, grown bored of her earlier mischief), when we awoke, we whiled away the remains of the afternoon playing tricks on the fish—
—which, though harmless, you felt guilty about anyway, so we shook out the crumbs from our blanket into the shallows, by way of apology—
—you were always so much kinder than I was—
—and when the sun began to set, we followed the smell of apple pie back down the long, be-chamomiled road home.