He is just about to enter the giant mouth of the slot canyon, pierce into the heart of his grandmother's home, when there is a thud behind him and a bark to let him know who it was.
Ah, Gramma Lala. Undignified as it would seem, and he has learned not to say it to others, this was his most favorite person to watch in the world. At least, that is, when he has been able to catch glimpses of her.
She reminds him of the blackberry bushes scent atop the plateau where he had one day traveled and first saw the oasis that was told of in the story of the first Guardian Angel. There had been no way down, not even if he was much older, much bigger. Only the slot canyons allowed travelers access. And even then, the maze was rumored enough to protect easily all who would find it’s fresh, clean, secret waters.
She smells sweet, homey and rich. Her halo, the color that glows about her, is a fading and intriguing plum purple, warmed by the love that infused with it. “What is you searching for young one?” Her voice is beautiful and full of things he cannot fathom, of learning and sights and joys and pains. It makes him feel safer, feel more nervous that perhaps she would not let him find this mystery den and oasis. “I is wanting to see an old place.” He murmurs, as though caught red-handed somehow.
“I is sorry, Gramma Lala, that I is not staying with Momma… I is just wanting to see the place of The Wildwoman from the story.” He says this, looking deeper into the mouth of the canyon as he finishes, as though longing for something he cannot quite place.
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