A lady of no less than 70 years of age has just set foot on my train carriage,
a carriage I’m certain is actually a pumpkin laced in gold & ageless innocence.
She’s wearing a cameo pink ball gown,
and a cream fur waist coat that hugs her shoulders like a life-long companion.
Her eyes peer through simple orchard pink frames, perfectly dressed in dusty bronze eyeshadow
& curled lashes that lay beneath beautifully arched eyebrows.
Shoes of pastel pink leather & a wrist wrapped in one radially symmetrical, rose gold diamonty bracelet.
Hair of golden Disney blonde, no more than 5 cm in length sitting motionless as if on a mannequin.
Lips naturally glossed & plump for a woman of her age.
This non-fiction plot twist was everything.
It was undoubtably clear that I’d just become acquainted with the magic illustrated in fairytales…
the magic we sometimes refer to as “fearless authenticity“.