Her favorite painting. It was the view from her bedroom window. Snow covering the rooftops of the city and blanketing the streets.
“It’s time” she thought. “Time to be there”.
Then she disappeared into the painting.
She hurried along the quiet street to her little house. Past the bright lights of a neighboring bistro. Past the little market on the corner.
A few snow flakes drifted down and caught in her hair like diamonds.
She filled her basket with glittering glass balls.
Tangles of shimmering angel tinsel.
A tarnished vintage star.
She filled her basket with armfuls balsam boughs.
Boughs to make into garlands.
Fragrant boughs to fill every room with their incense perfume.
Rooms leading one to the other, enfilade.
Rooms with ancient wooden floors that creaked and complained.
She would take the shimmering tinsel and form it into angel wings.
Delicate creations to catch the light.
Fantasy angel wings.
Fashioned for each window overlooking her tiny garden.
Nothing would be forgotten.
Even the ancient fountain heads would be crowned with garlands of balsam.
Carrying armfuls of happiness she hurried through the pristine snow covered streets leaving scarlet footprints in the snow. Her ruby slippers were taking her home. Home to her little house in Paris. Une petite maison.