Chinese Lanterns

If I were the woman, who lives down the hall from me, I would wear ostrich-skin, calf-length, cowboy boots in alligator colours.  I would drape a pashmina shawl over my shoulders and I would eat coconut ice-cream daily.  I would hire the greatest of Czech musicians and a troupe of Shakespearan actors to play and entertain me on Sunday evenings. And if I were the woman, who lives down the hall from me, I would keep kittens.

If I were the woman, who lives down the hall from me, I would make roller-skating compulsory, apple orchards a necessity and car alarms obsolete.  I would banish the rain.

I would make a Chinese lantern and let it float silently, way above St. Xavier’s church towards the Gobi.  There it would watch yaks on the steppe, camels walking by, wolves waking at sunset.  The desert winds would shake it sideways, but it would love watching herders’ families moving nearer to fresh grass and it would see the new horizon.  It would be its own collapsible integrity, a letter in calligraphy, rice paper and bamboo.  It would banish the rain.