It was a particularly windy day. My aged companion, Crisp, was having trouble keeping her hat on. Added to that her skirt kept blowing up so she was having a devil of a time holding one on and keeping one down.
I suggested we should get out of the weather, as it wasn’t doing either of us any good when we spied a feather blowing our way.
“It’s the fairies doing this, upsetting nature,” she announced and looking around for more evidence to satisfy her ever increasing loss of mind.
She was still sharp in lots of ways, but they too were decreasing and blunt was becoming a more apt word.
“They’re up to mischief, so you’d best be on the lookout, never know when they might reach out and strike you down. We wouldn’t want that, as where would we be then?”
I think it was instinct when I felt her holding my hand.