The perfect gift

Durable illusions. Advertisers offer ephemeral illusions, but lost illusions cause too much upset. Religions (wrong ones only, of course) offer illusions that only death conclusively dispels. Their durability lacks confidence, though; the thought that they might be illusions gives them a hollow feel, no matter how vigorous the inquisition is. The market is wide open for truly durable illusions, as indubitably real as a sports car and as lastingly deceptive as a superstitious habit. Perhaps a large illusion would be destructive, but something too small to cause structural problems would be the perfect gift.

I think these illusions would have to be alterations of memory or sensation. My first catalogue will offer these illusions: in memory, inserting a minor bravery or a brief, requited crush, or shifting an esprit d'escalier to the proper moment, or perfecting a conversation; in perception, coloring a day with significance, or infusing a lover with special glamour, or giving the air some subtle exhilarating scent. Wonderful dreams, remembered clearly, would sell well too. The most prized of all those would surely be the entire day marked by a sense of significance, too unobtrusive to doubt and too enveloping to miss.

It occurs to me that I have memories of all those sorts of things, though not too many; just enough to make it plausible that some other entrepreneur beat me to market. People must have been buying me a durable illusion or two every Christmas. Maybe the past grows sweeter in memory not by nature but because that is where we keep our durable illusions, like toys in a toy box.