Feel Better

An open book seems to have skid to a reluctant halt just before reaching the sheer cliff at the edge of the mattress. The blankets have been tossed haphazardly aside, a fraying quilt doing little to conceal the stained white sheet set. A pillow, all lumps and pink butterflies, blobs below the book at the side of the bed.

            Carelessly purchased greeting cards make a queue on every available surface, clichés in and of themselves. A few scattered, tiny, but well-meaning flowers lay on the floor, complacent and sickened. 

            The television at the end of the bed displays colorful static interspersed with a few meaningless images, and a full glass of milk watches from its position on the splintery hardwood floor. Its view is diminished by a lacy nightgown the color of toothpaste that fluttered overtop of it in the youthful breeze emitted from the mostly-open window.

            The light peeking through the opening is so blinding that it drove the sickness out, and outside, giggling can be heard. In the end, it wasn’t the cards or the flowers or the milk or entertainment that mattered, it was the light and the freedom and the open door waiting for her next to the window.

Sage

2-23-12