Winter Town 

Atop an impossibly steep and snowy alpine mountain, I wandered as the sun dipped behind the peaks, basking the solitary road and pines in a rose gold hue. I lamented my spatial challenges that may cause me to spend a night in the woods with only starlight as warmth and companion.

Just then, I came upon a ridge, then a tall hedge. It was deep green with waxy leaves and bright red berries. The hedge nearly concealed a small door. It was of old, dark wood; and was round at the top. In the middle was a ram’s head wrought in black iron. I touched the cold metal – a knob, it was. It turned gently and clicked. The door whispered open. The faint smell of cloves and ginger and smoke, a flush of warmth in my cheeks, brought me forward into a world I could scarcely believe real, but having seen it refuse to believe that it isn’t.

There was a modest road – more of an alley – cobbled entirely in smooth red riverstone and speckled with moss. It was lined with antique street lamps and dusted deeply with fat flakes of snow falling in the pristine air. The real beauty, however, was in the buildings. They glossed and glittered like porcelain. They were spread around the street like a handful of tossed dice. The buildings – chalets and other winter lodgings designed to delight – were boxy; some long and low, others perfect cubes, others yet in small piles. All were striped and cross-hatched with colorful, broad trim like ribbons. They looked like Christmas presents. The chimneys steamed, the windows glowed, and above the doors were names in gilded gold like “The Philosopher’s Den”, “Granny’s”, and “Gingerbread Haus”.

I strolled, knowing I would never leave this place – not fully. I would be back, and I would remember.