With All My Senses

those blurred lines

the past beats inside me like a second heart

― John Banville, The Sea

Later that day.

She lays there peacefully, for now, dreams slipping into her unconscious mind. Grey sheets tangled up in pale limbs, the covers spread in a messy heap on the floor by the bed, legs and arms exposed to the chill in the room, a black t-shirt the only thing keeping her warm. There's something about the way she lays on the bed. The almost still sadness, wrapping around her as if a cold embrace waiting yet to attack, body curling itself into a ball, fingers grabbing things that will always remain out of reach.

That's how you can taste emotions when studying her, but then, you notice the canvas and the colors. The dull background of a late Autumn afternoon trapped in the four humble walls, the soft grey tones of the sheets, the paleness of her skin contrasting with dark tones of her hair, and the simple fabric hugging her delicate curves. Maybe that's what you would see if she were a painting, a contrast of blacks, whites, and lost greys in between. Nothing was obvious about this living art, and the more you would look, the more you might see, digging deeper and deeper under the layers that she puts up as a disguise. But nothing really hides the pain, does it?

She falls even farther into her slumber. Body becoming slowly restless, visions sinking into the tired mind, and becoming irregular dreams.

Dreams, nightmares, memories. Lost time and still felt wounds.

The same visions from a few days ago, start to fill her mind slowly. This time though, they aren't as foggy and unclear as before, when seen through different eyes. This time she notices things from new angles, played slower and from the end. The past unfolding before her, guiding her to the beginning.

Brown sweater spread over a wooden chair, a shimmering light falling through the old blinds, and a golden watch still in its place on the nightstand. Not touched for over twelve years, waiting for his quiet return.

Dirt being frown over a wooden box as she stands there, a simple black dress covering her tired body. It's so thin, those bones like sharp edges to her pain. It's been a long time coming to this moment, the last couple of years being really rough... and as she stands there, her shoes sinking into the still-wet grass, the heat of the sun manages to touch her back.

The last feeling of warmth that she would ever remember.

The scene changes abruptly, and the memories shift, filling slowly with faded color glass tones and simple joys of life.

A yellow bike that fell to the ground. Connie cries so much, but she is a brave little trouper because... "Big girls don't cry, momma.".

Only sometimes, baby, only sometimes.

Tiny soft hands around my neck. She's only two and knows how to show it with those sweet pudgy fingers, making her father smile every time.

John's callus fingers on my stomach, the little one is kicking again. We leave the windows open in the summer, it's too hot to sleep. Our hours filled with whispers and slow caresses in the night.

Delicate golden bands set on eager fingers, a sweet beginning to the rest of our lives. I wanted this wonderful man for so long, and now he is finally mine, and I am his. This house will be filled with warmth and love, amidst the voices of our children, and then grandchildren to come. With always welcoming arms and plenty of kindness to spare.