Crumbs A stone hermitage hidden by overgrown brambles, thorny vines cast protection barring the way of those who wander the wrong path. You ignore the posted sign A caution against intruders. You manage to part dense branches enough to peer through thick shrubs and glance at a filthy window, a dim light shines from within the building with a dark foreboding. Scratches will mark your legs and arms as you step across prickly threshold, tiny insects will bother and bite but they go unnoticed when you finally see her face outlined from between drapery folds. Perhaps some would call you brave as you proceed over broken flagstones, recalling the wild gray hair in disarray, gnarled old hands and her hunched back. Your small hand grasps the tarnished knocker. Standing quietly on the decaying porch, you hear shuffled footsteps approach. When the heavy oak door creaks open an old woman stands before you; a smile does not disclose your plan. From your pocket a faded blue book, your outstretched hand extends to hers - a leather-bound book she takes right away, her mouth in a mostly toothless grin. You enter, smelling molasses cookies Soft and warm from the old oven, shared on a chipped china plate. Sitting, she watches you wipe crumbs from your face, her voice breathless as she reads aloud from the blue volume. Julie A. Dickson
