She would tell me when she was young
of her dreams to go there some day,
to have tea with madmen and conversations
with disappearing cats.
We would laugh at the absurdity
of twins named Tweedle and stay
up late mapping out adventures
and battles with the red queen.
I worried somewhat when she
was older, pining for a time when
she could return to the oversized
forest where rabbits wore waistcoats.
I attributed it to youthful exuberance —
holding on to a piece of her childhood —
exalting in her innocence, pleased
she was delaying growing up.
Now, years later, she cannot be found,
leaving behind a mysterious note:
‘Gone back down the rabbit hole at last,
wish me luck against the Jabberwok!’
Written for the third prompt of the