For Lily:
She sat on her noble white steed, fingers clinging tightly to the golden staff that stemmed from its motionless head. Her face was unreadable, an opaque window, fogged in the winter rain. The only hint of motion came from the vivacious colored lights parading in the mirrors of her glossy eyes. Her fingers were numb with the night’s chill, evident as well in her rosy cheeks. She was like a porcelain doll; so perfect, so fragile, so empty.
It began. The sounds of life blossomed all around her – laughter, shouting, crying, music. The smells of life permeated through the crisp night air – buttered corn, sweet treats, glazed meats. Images of life pranced about - Glittering lights lit up the night, daughters held tightly to their mother's danlging coats, red paint chipping off of the steel beasts. Yet it was all so translucent, a saddening silhouette. It seemed to rush through the air around her, and pass her by. She stretched her hand out to try and grab it, to let it flood her spirits with the wet and rank heaviness that she longed so deeply for, but it was just out of reach. The lights, the sparkling lights, that once seemed to shine with the brightness of a million suns, became a saddening blur that just exceeded the reach of her frail numb fingertips.
As the ride halted, she still clung desperately to the plastic animal. Her face, sorrowful. Silent tears reflected the gay and unworthy flicker of lights as they crept down her rosy cheeks. All of the children had since run off to the shelter of their mother’s arms, but the young woman remained.
Her sodden eyes flickered to the operator.
“Last ride of the night miss!” He shouted.
“Thank God,” she whispered softly to herself. The young woman closed her eyes, squeezed the staff, and was enraptured in the solace of warm darkness.
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