It Takes a Village
Madame Treyne had crossed the Rubicon in a way she could never explain to old friends and acquaintances, with whom she could not even communicate in any way ever again as her fondest desire had been granted; the person and she had exchanged lives for this and all Christmases to follow. The lonely, imagination-clouded widower who had for many years been caretaker of the colorful little village would now reside, as she had done for several carol-filled weeks perennially in her flower shop and for the rest wrapped in paper along with the others in a box in a dark place, though he would most likely make use of one of the gingerbread cottages that had mysteriously appeared, propitiously electrified, on the west side of the mirror lake, two, perhaps three, years earlier. Time was so hard to reckon these days now that it flowed continuously and did not occur in fits and starts as it had done for as long as she could remember. Her greatest regret on coming to this seemingly unstill life was that the joyously uneventful, yet musically charged days she recalled came again so rarely and held little of the charming ambiance she had formerly found so stultifying, but now missed with all her porcelain heart. There were times, to be sure, so filled with activity she did not have time to think about her former occupation, where it had been so easy to relate with her kind, but for the most part she now experienced the longing to be small and uncharged with responsibility that had shrunk the lonely heart of the person with whom she had traded places for all the wrong reasons. She often found herself gazing upon the unresponsive hand-painted figurines who populated her ever growing holiday village, which was never packed and stored as it sat eternally on display beneath a small, potted, carefully tended pine tree in a dedicated corner of what people sometimes referred to as her living room.
© Author 2011