Each time the snow fell, covering the land in ankle deep crunch, she went looking. And when ice turned the world to a hard snap, she searched then too.
She looked for the lamppost’s prism of glass, for dancing shadows falling on iron earth, for the faun and his parcels of paper and string.
Standing under heavy white firs, she listened for the chatter of beavers, for the sleigh bells’ frosty chime.
Always Winter, never Christmas.
The lack of magic became a physical pain, as if the cold had bitten her heart, broken it into glassy shards. Even the brilliant snow held no pleasure for her, as if it was already easing to slush.
She’s old now, still searching. Still driven on by that frostbitten heart. But sometimes, as she plants a powdery kiss on my cheek, I smell rosewater and lemons
and I wonder…
For those unfamiliar with the references, do take a look here.
I’m unsure if this is a cautionary tale about fruitlessly seeking magic in a world where none remains, or one cautioning against giving up hope too soon. You decide.
That’s it from me until after Christmas. As you read this I’ll be at work, selling holly and ivy and glitter to the good folk of Bristol.
Happy Christmas all and see you once the glorious madness is over.