The Snow Globe

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A short reflection on eternity's tangible side in the form of a favorite childhood trinket.

 

 

Most would certainly call it a strange object, the snow globe.  It sits on my nightstand, aging, the dust in its crevices like silver wrinkles that I could easily wipe away and deliver it from the unforgiving scythe of time.  I don’t, though.  I like the way the dust ripens it, making the globe look as if it has already witnessed the centuries before us and will be there long after I am dead.

The globe itself is a miscellany, looking very out place in my quaint, white-walled room.  I’m quite convinced that it doesn’t exactly belong anywhere at all, except perhaps with the hundreds of look-alikes lined up on some far off store shelf.  Yet, its awkward charm makes it difficult to imagine that there are more of its kind.  Such obscurities are not born in factories; rather, they are either molded by a pair of spiteful hands and a sardonic mind or created by accident.  And that is what makes them beautiful.

The base of the snow globe is a long black car resembling a cross between a hearse and a Ford Model T.  Lacing the exterior, daintily painted spiderwebs form a lazy, haphazard pattern that grips the car like a spreading cancer.  Tiny black spiders appear to scuttle across the wheels, as if along for the ride.  Behind the ceramic windshield sit the car’s occupants, holding hands within a smooth glass orb.  She wears a long blue dress with a white rose pinned to her chest and a purple bonnet with a red bow.  He wears black suspenders with a yellow bow tie and a black top hat.  While he looks at the road ahead, she gazes lovingly at him, one hand gracefully rested in her lap while the other holds his.  He returns the gesture, his other hand clutching a steering wheel that connects to nothing.  Although they are both dead and without flesh, neither seems to notice.  The chairs in which they sit resemble tombstones yellowed with age.  When you shake it, tiny black bats made enormous by the sphere’s magnification glide through the liquid sky, and a silver music box on the bottom plays “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” in bright tintinnabulations.  On some nights, when the darkness is either too empty or too full, I wind it up.  The sound then fills the abyss or combats the intruders in my mind, and I too am safe behind its protective glass.

If eternity were an object, I’m sure it would be much like the snow globe.  It is far heavier than it looks and cool to the touch, like death. The lovers appear to be encased in a seal that time does not penetrate, riding in a car that goes nowhere, gazing into an infinite sky that ends but a few inches in each direction.  Looking at it, I can’t help but wonder if this is what time truly is, a moment frozen in eternity until the next takes its place.  In the hopes that it holds the secret of immortality, I plan on taking it with me wherever I go.  If it fails in this use, however, I’m sure it will function just as satisfactorily as a paperweight.


Submitted: October 27, 2013

© Copyright 2020 nolabrook13. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Criss Sole

What an interesting way to look at a snow globe. I thought this was very creative.

Tue, October 29th, 2013 9:56am

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