A Little Drop of Heaven

The wind raged on just freestanding of the little house – shades of blue grey skipped over the pale and crinkled, almost translucent curtains, and the flurries of hot summer strained to breathe its way in. Print roses appeared every half a centimeter on the yellowish couch, swimming with the sunlight which caused the endearing fabric to glow in respect to the summer; however, the couch looked just as wondrous in the light of red and blue bulbs of Christmas. The heat of the sun did not affect this little entity of a home; the winter seemed to be encased neatly by the tall white walls, frozen by the joy snow brings. It was not a sad house, but a joyous goose bump on one’s heart. Summer was no longer excruciating and inauspicious because through the door lied a cold home that waited for a warm body.

The epitome of magic was held within this house, as though it had been duct taped onto the walls; to be inside was to not believe in what could be seen, but heard in the life beneath the humble makings as the pitter-patter allowed the ears to hear the life in the house and in the soul. She smelt of Channel number 7, long weathered fingers tainted blue with the Schwan pencils she used in her bank books and letters. The colors had been engraved into her bones, indoctrinating into her blood stream so that her veins ran hues of blue and purple under pale Irish skin as though she were some type of monotone masterpiece, created from the holds of an imagination with no limits. The perfumes of the house - a misty kind of smell that reminded one of blossoms and pastures and little girls in pink dresses - disseminated and mixed with whatever the bantam woman cooked, for the masses that assembled atop the old wooden chairs. The multitude would wait tolerantly, lips turning up as she sang sweetly, chirping from time to time like a mockingbird – before fading about the battered turnings of the sapphire and bleached walls. She was the home, the very edifice the frost land existed upon; deprived of her the oddity of this home was instantaneously drawn away and the eye yearned for the sun, beholding the rumpled, semi-luminous drapes.

Once the entry is considered, delicate curiosities, knickknacks, and otherwise senseless belongings are congregated atop every surface of every tabletop. The cold, seemed to preserve everything flawlessly, immobilized the grime so as it could not drop against the virgin surface and ruin the astonishment of the spectacle. Deprived of additional inspection, the objects were just objects, not allowances of the home, of the fascination, of the elder. Assortments contoured the walls, each one holding a reverie and retention. Contained inside a mahogany wardrobe, with cut-glass that shone like water, refined, the items waited to be ventured upon, to be handpicked, extolled, and caressed by keen fingers. There is a mass of beings, their spines immaculate and whimsical in all their glory.

The stallions stood lifeless, however the glass intertwining backward and forward over the precious china incarcerated the image that the little horned brutes are trapped in the storm of something greater and higher than all of God’s creations could imagine. Eyes glimmered; in the climax of entities was a minuscule golden unicorn, his head, pressed solemnly against his rib cage– his stature indifferent against the height of the other beasts – he was magnificent, striking. His middle had been exchanged with diamonds. The collection of diamonds itself was the scope of a child’s fingertip, but nonetheless, his opulence contested with that of the house, though just short of the woman. Infinite times this little horse had been drawn from his situation, adolescent fingers pulling at the grooves his midsection created.Observed, and placed back, his head seemed to rise off of his chest just a bit with admiration of splendor and elegance. The armoire shimmered when rays of summer sun, cold with the internal winter of the home, shone through the glass and seeped into his body, set the others aflame with little white circles that fell upon them like snow or stars. Without him, the trinkets felt desolate.

The curios, like the golden unicorn, finished the grand abode, converted a house into a home, warming one from inside out and all the way into the soul. The woman, she planned it this way. The old wooden beams extended from her backbone, the rooftop supported by the woman’s shoulders. Its majesty and curiosity gained by the ornaments congregated atop every surface of every tabletop. The sparkles of the miniature diamonds lustered as the sun slipped within, almost unintentionally through pale and crinkled draperies, over the yellowish couch, swimming with the sunlight, into the red-brown cabinets, embracing the golden bauble. All was grand in this petite weathered woman’s home.