sometimes u have to contrive plot to write a father-daughter road trip 1700s style
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“The chamomile is Mama’s favorite,” she says, her small hand warm and secure in Da’s as he helps her climb over a large log. “That’s how I knew it. An’ the mushr’ms ‘cause they don’t look like anythin’ else.”
“Just there?” says Da, and then stops their trek to pick a few. His fingers are big and almost crush the soft mushroom caps. Mama’s fingers never crush the caps -- they’re careful like Da’s, but delicate, and slender. They always seem to know where to go in the greenery. Bree misses them – the soft, cool touch of Mama’s hands. But now they have mushrooms. “These’re good tae eat, I think,” Da’s saying. He beckons Bree over, to stand by him where he’s crouched, chin to chin. They inspect the mushrooms together. “No’ ones t’make ye sick,” he decides.
“No,” says Bree. “Mama picks these.”
“Aye,” Da says. He looks up at her, one eye narrowed, considering. There’s a glimmer there even though he’s not quite smiling, the secretive sort that happens just between the two of them.
- Part 2 of then she'll be a true love of mine