This week’s photo prompt is provided by loniangraphics. Thank you for our photo prompt!
Each time the snow fell, covering the land in gnawing cold and ankle deep crunch, she went out looking. And when ice turned the world to a hard snap … she searched then too.
Looked for the lamp post with its prism of glass, for dancing, gaseous shadows falling on hard packed earth. Looked for the faun and his presents clothed in paper and trussed with string.
Sitting under the fir trees, waiting for chattering beavers, for sleigh rides and Turkish Delight – Always Winter, never Christmas – she was filled with so much yearning, such a need for magic, it was as if the frost had bitten her heart, as if it was in shards in her chest, cracked like a broken ice puddle. Beneath her feet there was never magic, only the parent of grey, gritty slush.
She’s old now, still searching. Still driven by that frostbitten heart. But sometimes, I swear her breath smells of rosewater and lemons and I wonder …
And if – dear, bereft reader – you are ignorant of the land I am describing, then you merely need to step this way. Mind those moth balls, now.