Thursday, 16 March 2017

spring



Quietly, she wakes, a gray sun veiled from her eyes, filtered by imperfect curtains. She scrunches her toes and uses them like fingers to remove her cotton socks. She is too hot, but the outside world is too cold.
 Downstairs, a clatter of dishes, a dropped knife force open her sleepy eyes. She realises that she doesn't much want to be awake, but there is nothing she can do. Someone else thought it was okay to make noise. She rises, and leaves her duvet in a crumple. It looks like melting whipped cream.
 Underfoot, the car[et is not so bad. It shelters her from the whisping cold, all the way to the bathroom where icy tiles sting and insist. She looks into the mirror. Her sleepy eyes tell of a different world, one much softer, of grass and the colour blue. Her lips are split and her eyebrwos wild from tossing and turning.
 She can feel her arms prickle with goosebumps. All of her hairs are alert, and she thinks of how someone plucked out all the feathers of a chicken, and made each one exit so violently that little bumps errupted from the chicken's skin. She rubs her arms to make them smooth and warm.
 She steps in a wet puddle and is grateful that she isn't wearing socks anymore.
 She nips downstairs, but whoever was unloading the dishwasher is gone. She thinks she might like some pancakes, but remembers that there are no more eggs, and slides a slice of white bread into the toaster in their stead. She decides to spread it with raspberry jam. She doesn't want milk or orange juice, but it is too early for water. She cuts off the crusts and leaves them for the birds.
 In the very centre of her brain, a snowflake falls. It shouldn't be there; it is springtime. Snowflakes usually do not fall alone. It is odd. She doesn't like it.
 She takes a bite out of her toast. She tells herself that the snowflake was just a strange accident that no one could ever explain. It doesn't matter. It is still springtime.
 The next morning, when she wakes up, she realises that the heavens have opened. Somehow, it is winter.

anna o'c

1 comment

Thank you for your words x

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