One Sunday afternoon the boyfriend and I decided to stretch our weekend away from Kingston and spend a little more time in Toronto. Strolling down Queen Street West, we popped into one of the trendy department stores. I stood in the door. Staring … Staring … Staring … There, in a glass bowl, were baby mirror balls, small like a golf ball. Just $2.99 each. I picked up one, looked at the boyfriend and smiled. “We just got them in,” the salesgirl purred. I held it in my hand while the boyfriend looked at black blazers. “Maybe one day on the blog, I’ll tell the mirror ball story,” I said. “Mmmm,” he said back. ••• It was one night last winter when I got into bed and the boyfriend whispered “close your eyes.” I snuggled my nippy toes under the blanket and squeezed my eyes shut until he said, “OK. Open them.” Above my head, to my left, to my right, on the end of his nose, on my arm, were hundreds of Tinkerbell fairies, fluttering, dancing, flickering. My bedroom had become a magical forest where fireflies played and penned romantic comedies for John Cusack. I reached out my hand, let one of the bright lights sit in my palm and squeezed tight, careful not to hold on too tight so that I didn’t suffocate the light. Last winter, I got a night of sleeping under the stars thanks to a simple magic trick. Just prop up a flashlight in a coffee mug so that the light shines on a hanging mirrorball. On the weekend, when we were ready to leave the store, I put the baby ball back in the bowl. I don’t need another one – I have one above my head every night.