I opened the backdoor one frosty morning and found this tiny, worn slipper on the middle of the top step. Where it came from, I can only imagine. Perhaps a squirrel left it there, or a bird dropped it from overhead. Probable theories. But probability isn’t my typical starting point. A tiny person, a fairy, or an anthropomorphic doll lost her shoe as she was running for cover under the doorway, escaping a horrible foe–a terrifying insect or a ferocious rodent. These were far more entertaining scenarios.
It was early December and a persistent series of gale winds kept what was left of Autumn’s litter–mucky, wet leaves and gnarly twigs–swirling through the air like confetti. Therefore, considering probability again, it wasn’t a far-fetched idea to believe that it was yet another toy that had been liberated from its prison under a moldy maple leaf by the wind ruffling the ground. It wasn’t uncommon to find some artefact from previous residents after a stormy night. Interesting treasures like a faded action figure with its limbs clearly chewed by a dog, dice and marbles, balls of all sizes, and many toy cars–rusty and missing a wheel or two–were often showing up in my shovels. But the shoe was more puzzling. I’d raked up the garden the previous day and not noticed anything at all. I’d even washed and swept down the back steps. And, we’d had a break from the wind that night. It couldn’t have blown there and there were no squirrels around: they were all hibernating, surely.
I could rack my brain about how it got there, or just agree with the explanation my mind had first conjured. It belonged to a fairy, or a tiny person, or the anthropomorphic doll. I decided whatever she was, she’d made it to safety and was recovering somewhere in a secret part of the house, sitting on a cold foot to keep it warm.
Whimspherical 