Perhaps it was just Cardamon Spice…

Further and further she fell. How far down could a rabbit hole go? Of course, Daisy had never learned such a thing in school so she by no means could know, but it did leave one to wonder. Perhaps she should be worried. Perhaps her mind should be racing to produce a solution. Perhaps she should be attempting to use her skirt as some sort of umbrella-like thing to keep her from splattering when–or if she ever hit the ground. Perhaps she should try to reach out and grab onto the barely visible dirt walls that surrounded her. But with no sunlight, there was not much to see. Perhaps—oh perhaps perhaps perhaps. It was too much perhapsing for one day. So further and further she–

Blue entered her vision. It was the scent of Cardamom wafting through the air. She knew the spice because her Grandmother's house was always blue and her Grandmother always cooked with Cardamom spice, what a wonderfully nice scent. It was a Sunday staple for her Grandmother's cooking. ‘Cardamom spice’ she would say ‘ can add flavor to even the drabest of foods.’ 

The smell continued to surround her, the color dancing before her eyes. Cardamon spice was blue. What other color would it be? It twirled around her as if promising to cushion her fall. It was summer above the rabbit hole but at this moment it was fall. The spicy yet sweet scent of the powder was meant for fall. Perhaps wherever she was or would be going it would be fall. She imagined disappearing into a pile of bright red leaves only to have a warm apple pie greeting her when she emerged from her own world buried beneath leaves. The warm and soft smell of the apple pie...why she could almost taste it. Perhaps warm or soft was not the proper way to describe how something tastes.

 She giggled. How wonderfully silly. One could not taste a warm sunny day or the softness of a pillow, well perhaps the last one someone could accomplish but she couldn’t imagine it being good. But the apple pie was especially good, and it was even better when she had been allowed to help. Because whenever her Grandmother turned her head she would add a pinch more of sugar. ( Although her Grandmother did indeed know about this trick) She longed to taste the crisp apples, the ones that had been picked freshly from the trees and were filled with Cinnamon, Nutmeg, and yes, Cardamon Spice. 

And suddenly she wasn't falling. No, she was sitting. She wondered when that happened. Perhaps she was in her Grandmother's home. Perhaps she hadn’t fallen down a rabbit hole, perhaps she had just gotten lost within her pile of leaves. Perhaps her Grandmother was preparing to lecture her on her inappropriate behavior just this morning. She hadn’t meant to be rude; she was simply trying to show the women all the colors. All the colors no one else could see. 

And of course she hadn't meant to fall into a rabbit hole. Although she supposes no one ever means to fall into a rabbit hole. But she couldn't be sure, she very well may be the first. She had just been upset. To be scolded so openly in front of everyone for doing something she didn't even consider wrong was quite embarrassing. Perhaps if she had taken a moment to collect her thoughts or count to ten as she had so often been taught she would not have wandered so far. And she certainly wouldn't have ended up down here. Wherever here was. Perhaps she should have just gone up into her room and stayed there for an hour or so.

Perhaps—oh enough perhapsing. 

She needed to work on that. Adults always said it was not good to perhaps. Perhapsing left room for doubt and uncertainty and it was always good to be sure. ( But at this point, she certainly wasn’t even sure if perhapsing was a word, she had never heard anyone else use it but it sounded as though it should be a word) But she was no longer falling she was sitting of that she was certain. She could barely see where she was sitting. It was far too dark, so it couldn’t be her Grandmother's kitchen, the one that had sunlight streaming through from all directions. Unless she had for some reason redecorated. And then there would—

A cool wind brushed up against her. From where, she couldn't be certain but with it came magic. Of that, she was indeed sure. The earthy smell of the lovely Cardamon came back, running to her like an old friend who she had not seen in ages. She laughed as if the smell was her faithful dog, Bartholomew, licking her nose. Bartholomew, a seemingly odd name for a dog. Although not so odd if you once had a great great great great uncle ( she wasn’t really sure if that last great belonged there) who was named Bartholomew. And please don’t consider her rude. Her great great great great great uncle ( she might as well add another great because after four what was one more) had all the qualities of a dog according to the oldest members of the family. Of course, she wasn’t allowed to call them old because that was rude. 

When did facts become rude? But her great great great great great great uncle ( why not make it six?) was said to be loyal, kind, brave, a good companion, and had a very unique type of stamina, although she wasn't sure what that meant. It was one of those things when said, the adults would wave their hands dismissively and say when you're older. When she was older? That seemed like such a preposterous statement. Her chair rattled ever so slightly. She looked around. Now whatever could cause such a thing? Below her, like a cheeky squirrel, a soft pale pink was sweeping through the chair's leg. She leaned down scooping up as much of the color as she could though she wasn’t sure if that actually did anything or if the smell of Oranges just came to her nose naturally. But not the regular Oranges one bought at the store. 

No, these were the oranges one found on a lucky day wandering the forest. The smell, untainted by the eyes and hands of others. It was pure. She wished to describe it, if not for herself, for her family for they would oh so love to know about this wonderful smell. Perhaps she could attempt to recreate the smell with her Grandmother, and maybe her older sister would even dare to help. Her older sister was not much help around the kitchen. She said she didn’t want to get dirty. And for all her intelligent thinking—she was indeed top of her class—she could not think as to why her sister would not want to get dirty. 

What was more lovely than letting the beautiful dirt cake your skin and gather under your nails. It proved that something had been done. Oh, but the Oranges. Where were the Oranges? For if something smelled like something it meant that that something could not be far away. The citrusy smell tingled her nose the further she inhaled. She knew it was the smell of oranges but she knew it was different because she had never seen that color of pink before, like the promise of something more. And then red. She closed her eyes the minute the warm and comforting smell of Cinnamon hit her nose. She was home wrapped in a blanket by the crackling fire whose smoke smelled like Cinnamon warming the air. The faint smell of Oranges floated through the air, the pink circling her family in a delicate dance. 

Her older sister read them all a tale from one of her books Daisy still had trouble reading from. Her words smelled like Cardamon spice. It was such a wonderful thing, everything she loved, all the whimsical wonders of her imagination were in practice. All she was missing was dancing gingerbread. But that one was quite impossible. But maybe on a particular odd day perhaps not. Her younger brother, although not yet nine, could play a decent bit on the violin. He picked it up, beginning to move the bow delicately across the strings, a somewhat fanciful music coming from it. Her Grandmother stood from her chair taking Daisy’s hand as she lifted her from her blanket onto the open wooden floor. 

And they danced to the slightly out-of-tuned music. As they moved with the melody, stumbling every so often due to Daisy’s lack of proper footing. Thankfully her clumsiness where no hindrance to the colors dancing around them. Blue was the first to join in the smoke of the fire creating a delicate earthy hue around them. The pink that lifted from the Oranges all neatly placed in the basket seemed to get jealous at the sight and quickly rushed to join in. The citrusy forest smell came, beckoning them both into an enchanted dance. Red was the last to join in, but perhaps the most excited one of them all, with her sister's sweet words matching the tempo of her brother's music. 

And now she was no longer sitting or dancing but she was walking up from her chair to somewhere following the music and dancing she knew she heard. And then once more she was falling. Had she fallen down yet another rabbit hole? How would she explain any of this to her friends and family back home. She had been doing a lot of falling, but perhaps she did not dislike it as much as she probably should have. And soon after she was done falling, this rabbit hole was hardly as large as the first one. So rabbit holes were off different lengths. How smart she would seem when she announced this information to her class on Monday morning. Oh, how foolish she was. Monday was show and tell she should have tried to bring some of the smells back with her to show her class. They certainly would have seen nothing like it. She sat up her head peeking through a giant pile of golden, red, and barely green leaves. A soft and warm smell greeted her nose. Now in that there was no mistake, it was her Grandmother's secret apple pie recipe. She was almost floating as she let her nose carry her back into the house. No different than when she left it. Perhaps she hadn’t fallen down a rabbit hole. Perhaps she had just gotten lost in a pile of leaves. And perhaps-

 Oh again with the perhapsing she should not be perhapsing this much. Adults said perhapsing was bad. Perhapsing being naturally unsure left room for doubt, but what was doubt if not the thing that always kept coming through when one had plans too big to hold together. Perhapsing would be necessary if she were to dream and if she were to dare. She would have to start somewhere and perhapsing did not seem like the worst way to start. So perhaps it had just been the Cardamom spice or perhaps it had been something much much more...