My girls could probably count on one hand the number of times they've seen me cry. And all those times likely had something to do with me talking about love of country or fellow man, not my consternation over their messy rooms, which is when I really wish the tears would flow.
But on Christmas morning, I cried. I cried when Sophie gave me the gift she'd been making for the past several weeks, hunched over in her room for hours, coming out to ask: did I want to know what it was right then or did I want to wait until Christmas to find out?
I did want to know what it was right then, but I told her I'd wait until Christmas to find out.
Otherwise, I'm never going to grow up.
It is a tiny house made of paper, magic, and love.
Come, take a look with me...
In the sitting room there is a fire on the hearth, a mantle with candles, a portrait of a grand lady in a dress the color of the sky in spring. There is a cuckoo clock, a window left open so its lace curtains flutter gently in the breeze, and an upright piano with a nocturne waiting to be played. There is a bookshelf filled with stories and then, antlers--found in the forest and mounted to the wall. On the other wall there is a butterfly collection entitled Lepidoptera and on the floor, a bear skin rug.
What could the grand lady tell us about that?
The kitchen is a cozy window on the world. There is a tapestry hanging on the interior wall, a brocade of silver and rose. There is the aroma of spices--of ginger, nutmeg, and mace. Of turmeric and saffron, of licorice and mint. There are pots and pans and something warm in the oven. There are fresh baguettes and a simple meal at the table set for two.
Upstairs is the bedroom. A canopy of quilts for the sweetest of dreams, for slumber and rest. A sepia photograph of an ancestor keeping watch, someone with quiet beauty and the strength to face down a pack of wolves. There is a stained glass window which catches the light, more books, a harp, a clock, a mirror, and fresh poppies on the dresser. If you lean in closer, you will detect the gentle scent of rose water.
Beyond that is the attic, curiously empty save for a tiny bird perched upon a trunk. The trunk is locked and no one knows the whereabouts of the key. The bird, a sparrow, is waiting. It is waiting for someone to come who has the key and knows how to open the trunk and release what's been hidden away for so long inside.