Like tinkling bells, the children’s laughter pealed in rounds and seemed to float through the spaces like pastel bubbles.
They wound between the trunks which stood like wizened sentries, ancient and knowing, hunching aching shoulders and splaying weary limbs.
Little Amy trailed behind, latching onto fleeting glimpses of colour. She was reminded of brushstrokes, ribbons and fairgrounds…
Accompanying her, her right leg, the uninvited party guest, the hanger-on; she dragged it through the papery leaves and tried to pretend she was one of the group.
The knuckled root clasped her ankle with bony fingers and pulled.
Then she was gone.