Where-words

Where-words

The Magician took me into his lair. It looked like an old warehouse to my unschooled eyes. Brown wooden casks were stacked from the damp floor to dark, musty beams above.

While I pondered his strange locale he handed me a small brown container.

"You'll be needing this," he said.

"What's in it?" I asked.

His bearded visage twinkled. "Where-words," he said jovially.

I opened the round lid and peered inside. "I don't see anything."

"Where-words are transparent," he explained. "You can't see them, but you can feel them."

I reached a finger into the container and touched something soothingly cool.

"But what do I do with them?"

The Magician began walking away as though I should already know.

"Put one on when you don't remember where you are," he shouted over his shoulder.

"The Where-word will tell you."

Suddenly he was gone, his lair was gone, and I was . . .

God knows where.

"Good time for a where-word," I said, looking around nervously.

Reaching into the container I put a Where-word on my chest.

Immediately my body was filled with minty cool delight from head to toe.

The world was suddenly and clearly wondrous and perfect.

Not only that, I was an essential, indispensable part of the immensely complete and satisfying beauty that extended from infinity to eternity.

"Oh, right," I said with relief.

"I'm here."