The glass bauble sits nestled in a bed of tissue, where it had been tucked with infinite care at the dawn of a new year.  It is the final object to be placed on the tree, having outlived many an angel, wiseman and Christmas star.  It has a fading beauty.  The metallic coating, once an expanse of emerald green has tarnished and the surface of the bauble is like that of an alien planet.  It came from Venice and bears a lightness of craftsmanship in its thinly blown glass. Its destiny decided by a child barely tall enough to see over the edge of the shop counter.

The young couple were making their way back to the hotel, swinging between them their daughter, red tendrils escaping from under a rainbow striped hat.  The girl’s eyes were bright and every part of her was vibrating with the magic of the evening. A gondola ride that had journeyed down enchanted passages, a barcarolle the notes of which had reached into her heart, and the taste of cannoli and rich hot chocolate on her tongue.  The shop had looked inviting and laughing the family had tumbled in over the threshold.  The bauble was carefully selected from a cornucopia of jewel coloured cousins and placed in a box and wrapped for the journey home. The shopkeeper, a man as gentle as he was old, had handed over the box, and with a wink at the parents had bent down to whisper in the girl’s ear. The girl, shoulders back and head held high carried the box; first through the winding cobbled back streets to the hotel, later through the snaking queues and bustling crowds of the airports, and finally cradled in her small hands for the taxi journey home.  In a miracle of existence, the bauble survived to be tenderly placed on the family Christmas tree.  Every Christmas, year after year.

The child reflected in the curve of its sphere grew and now this woman holds the tattered box containing the glass bauble. She is telling a child, barely tall enough to see over the windowsill to the falling snow outside, a story.  How many years ago, a young girl had carried this precious talisman from a magical city far away, where singing men in boats floated down streets made of water.  How she had been entrusted to protect the talisman from giants and thieves and dragons and how it had been her responsibility, and hers alone, to ensure its safe and secure passage home. The child’s eyes are wide and bright with imagined other worlds.

Then, the woman takes the bauble out of its box, the tissue paper releasing it with a whisper and she gently places it in the hands of the child. Deft little fingers cup the bauble, and very carefully, with a reverence of movement, the child places it on the tree. The woman rests her hand for a moment on the girl’s red curls before drawing her close. Together they stand in silence, mother and child, reflected in the curve of a sphere.