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A Blonde Tinker, a Toy, and a Smile
The table was small enough to almost seem overburdened by its bare load. The only furnishing in the room beyond a single bed. A tea pot had been set aside—its contents long ago ceasing to steam. It was unlikely that any warmth yet lingered. A small toolkit rest upon the table, unrolled to reveal slender pockets containing the long metal tools of a delicate trade. Tools and kit rest upon bare ragged cloth: a worn cover to protect the rough, worn, table beneath.
The unlikely tinker sat precariously balanced upon a stool designed for Lalafel. Hooked over her ears, probing between strands of long golden blonde hair, was a bare wire frame upon which were mounted loops to hold the inexpensive magnifying lenses she had once struggled to acquire. A gentle puf fof air was expelled between carmine-moistened lips, before scattering the small accumulated shavings of her careful filing.
For the briefest moment her brow furrowed above focused blue eyes. Their usual brightness had given way to a look of concentrated attentiveness rarely, if ever observed by others. She pondered if she had been too careless with the shavings. But as she withdrew the fine, tapered file she reminded herself that it was a toy, and not an instrument.
She straightened her body, balancing precariously still on the stool as she pushed her shoulders back, and arched the curve of her spine, stretching out muscles that felt cramped and idle. A finger deftly flicked the lens away from her eye, as she looked upon the toy aldgoat with a soft, pleased smile. She had laid open the access panel, revealing the little animal’s mechanical guts. Now it lay as if on a miniature operating table surrounded by the tools that in proper hands could restore it to life (or likeness thereof).
It was a smile of contentment; of one making the world a slightly better place. She tried to imagine the look on the boy’s face when his starlight toy had quit with a sudden grinding groan. His mother had purchased it from a second-hand shop, thinking she had struck starlight gold: a real gift for her son, at a price she could afford on her dancer's income. There was a double devastation of disappointment in the small family.  The tinker did not have to imagine, but could recall that look upon her friend’s face when she had offered to fix the son's broken toy. Confusion and disbelief mixed with hope, what after all did she have to lose?
Of course she had doubt, what sort of dancer could fix the toy? What sort of dancer knows how to do that?
It had been a quiet Starlight. The few gifts she received were sweet nothings in the pleasant, crisp, winter air that bit playfully at exposed skin. The chief, prized above all else, her own little aldgoat. For a moment she had thought to replace the one, with the other, but she knew a child would know his own. That provided by mother’s love, could not be as easily replaced as repaired.
Her eyes lingered upon her own little fellow, who sat silent and idle upon a slender shelf that ran along the bare, cracked wall of her own room. It was a symbol of thoughtfulness, of friendship, and of welcome in this distant home.
She had found her usual pleasure in the season: descending upon the markets in the days that followed and enjoying the occasion to purchase whatever met her fancy as the merchants and traders sought to unload the last of their merchandise: perfumes, cosmetics, and baubles that still brought a flutter of excitement to her heart. But none would be quite the same as the gift she hoped to give to a boy she has never met nor whose smile she expects to ever see.
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Another Day
Stylus lay as if absentmindedly left behind—slow-blotting the last of ink. The door sounded shut a short distance away. It was time for work: time once more to be the smiling, ever-cheerful blonde. The parchment bore a different shade of reflection.
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Cold spring gives way to colder summer.
The seasons having lost their way.
‘Twas not that sun chose to slumber,
But that the frost preferred to stay.
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Whatever spell was cast upon it,
On that remembered fateful day,
Could not be fled, except by permit,
Sooner some escape, than to obey.
To find the world, than to submit.
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I once was one that longed to see
To hear, to feel, to learn, and know,
What it meant to be a woman free.
To leave it all behind, and let it go.
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Now I know, the taste and feel of sun.
Beach-hot white sand beneath my feet,
In salt-sweet air, and carefree fun,
And endless smiles for all I meet.
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But I cannot forget, or cease to care,
From where I came, and who I am.
Embittered cold, that all must bear,
From where I came, and who I am.
The howling gale, hope, despair.
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Where cold-capped snow peaks linger still,
Where frost strong-clings to all it sees.
Where hearth and home bring warm goodwill,
Where love exists beneath the freeze.
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