It Felt Like Warm, Buttered Toast

She had wondered about sunlight. And twirly, loopy, sunshiny days. Where were those days, she asked as she looked out at the damp, overcast wedge outside the window. 

It made her heart sink to think that the little child was 3 and had never seen a true sunshiny day. What was it like, asked the child. To have never ending sun?

Oh, she said. Lovely. Just undescribably lovely. You feel light and flighty as you watch the sun baking your heart to perfection. It felt like warm, buttered toast inside. 

And best of all, you stay crispy the whole day.

And you don't have to carry an umbrella at all, asked the child?

Not at all. Not on buttered toast days. 

If she had known then what she knew now

She had stood then at the brim of hope. Not knowing that her life would swish by as the drone of work continued to reverberate.

The sky darkened into a gunmetal grey, an ominous rain threatening to drench the afternoon. 

The Emptiness of Night

Last night, she sat up. Weighted by the day.

Mornings are fine. Mornings brim with possiblities. Untapped futures to be stumble upon. Afternoon becomes a little heavier, depending on lunch. And then evening meanders almost suddenly. Pregnant with dusk and leftovers from lunch.

It is the emptiness of night that seems to be the problem. Night gave her no directions.. Every night, she sat up and stared at the window. Trying to find night's meaning.

Her Sadness

Her sadness seeped out and sat staring at her. Like a deepset mist that that stood thick in the air. It spread slowly on the chairs and the curtains. Over the stove and kettle. Around the terracota horse on the console table. Everything was weighted and sad.

Yet, outside it was a glorious day. Brilliant and bright, the world sparkled.  The brightness cast a halo, neatly wrapped around her but could not penetrate any more.

Her sadness was a shield that deflected all light. Inside.