As sleep lounges in a corner refusing her invitation, Anne Marie's mind travels to the long ago.
In the blush just before dawn, after a night of hunting those things that go bump, the memories taunt.
Her daughter, born in a witches hut. A child she never held nor suckled. A child taken from her before her womb completed its business.
All that she has to hold, is a silver thread wound tightly about a lock of hair.
She has known her daughter's daughter, and the daughters after.
Still, she'd trade the centuries for one touch of her newborn's hand.
I joined in the 100 Word Song, this week's track is "She Talks to Angels" by The Black Crowes. This is another little snippet of Anne Marie/Annag's story. There is more, I'm working on it...