The mantle over the fireplace, three little arched alcoves,
covered in rings of pearls and crisscrossing vines. Miniaturized recesses in
which flowers and figurines can be placed, adding a splash of color to the soft
white surface. The same tiny pillars which stand at attention here are echoed
in every wall and corner, their big brothers hold up the domed ceiling. Every
carved curve and swirl recreated in miniature across their surface. How many
have stood here; flowers and figurines, holly and hearts, the various cast of
characters who stand beneath the keystones, each thinking they are the star.
But their time on the stage is brief, the stage is forever. Even a bird with
his wings spread wide could not completely cover those pearls, or those
swirling vines. A woman comes to remove the flowers and wreath, replacing them
with a red wooden heart, growing out of a wooden stem in a pot. The heart is
glowing with pride, her moment has come, and the mantle, quietly smiling, does
not contradict her.
