The Peddler-Woman

The peddler-woman sells things that cannot be bought, and everyone knows it. Others in the market sell beautiful things; sweaters and scarves, cutting boards and cooking pots, wine bottles and woven rugs. The crafters sew, carve, weld, sculpt, or brew all they sell, each to perfection. The peddler-woman wordlessly wheels her cart through the snow-dusted square; perched perilously on her shelves are storms and sunshine, long days and late nights, birdsongs and battle cries, quick thoughts and quiet musings. She hides her face behind heavy scarves and low hats of no particular color, but her eyes gleam through even the thickest snowfalls. I should know.

I first saw her on the first morning of January, as the first bell rang. She stumped along through the crowded street, ignoring the babbling customers pulling from her shelves. But from fifty feet away, her trenchant stare cut deep into me, despite my attempts to avoid it. I had no need for her wares, no desire for anything never meant to be mine, but she hobbled towards me anyway. For a moment, I could not tell the difference between her ash-white hair and the flurry of surrounding snow.

“I’m not–” The words never escaped my lips. She took my hand and whispered, “Sell, or be sold. Buy or be bought. You are an early spring.”

I rest between a mild winter and the wish from a fallen star. The view of the square from the peddler-woman’s shelf is unlike anything I have ever known.