“The Aspiration of Rosamund Quagmire” by Rick Midler
When Rosamund Quagmire was newly widowed, she took to adorning herself in gold and wearing scarlet silk, claiming the color kept her spirits “hovering just above despair.” She spent her mornings in the mire that was her garden, peering through low-hanging clouds with her spyglass, devising ways to correct the lives of everyone she knew in Winthorpe Woods. She considered herself a benevolent puppeteer, often murmuring under her breath, “If not I, then who shall save them from their unfortunate instincts?”
Now, they say the valley bears her likeness—with a cheerfully red bluff gazing down upon some unsuspecting beneficiary of her intellect, “a pale version of who they could be if they only tried.” The golden clouds—weighted by Rosamund’s oversized baubles—have become the main attraction for anyone fortunate enough to find their way into this remote landscape. It is said that anyone who enters here emerges changed for the better, though no one quite agrees whether by grace—or by her meddling hand.
