Skyfall

There's an overstuffed velvet red armchair with a vaguely floral green pattern. It has short, stubby, scratched wooden legs and curled over arms. The back of the chair is a mushroom shape, with a wider top than bottom. There are buttons that match the design pushed into the back of it. It is in a warm, orange-lit room in front of huge bookshelves and is resting on a plush afghan rug on a dark wood floor. The orange light is from a fireplace. The chair is tilted ever so slightly towards the source of the fireplace.

The floor is glossy and brown, the bookshelves a deep auburn, floor to ceiling, packed with books. Mostly old volumes, dusty, with well-worn leather covers. The blue armchair is separated from the red one by a small, circular brown glossed table. It hangs on spindly legs, a long-legged spider standing upright.

The blue chair is a mirror of the red, adorned with pale yellow florals. Firelight flickers over them, bathing the chairs in a sunset wash. Crackling can be heard throughout the room as logs are engulfed by the flames.

The ceiling, sprawling, reaching, high as the heavens. A dome shape enclosing the room, painted to blush the lightest of maroons. A swirl, flick, tiny dance of paint wanders around the edges, a circular, never-ending waltz.

Shelby is entranced by the room. Her wide, deep-end-of-the-pool blue eyes grow, popping in surprise. A bottom lip opened slightly, slack in her wonder. Her wisp of a ponytail flits and flutters slightly from a cold draft through the open window, curtains abreeze.

I make my way, padding on sock-clad toes to the window. A loud click pushes through the room, sending Shelby's doe-eyed face into a startle, the wayward bottom lip snapping back to its top. Shelby's eyes flick over to me, glancing at the sudden noise. Her toes shift the afghan rug into a wrinkle, feet scuffling in place.

"So, um, what do you think?" I ask her, waiting, nervous for her response.

It doesn't come.

Shelby pads over to the red chair and scrunches into it, knees against chest, her wispy ponytail curling over her shoulder. She tucks her arms around her knees, one toe slightly on top of the other. Her eyes have returned to their normal, peeking out of pale lids.

Her maroon sweater is the same deep color as the chair, a contrast for midnight sky, deep navy blue skinny jeans. Untied Converse rest with my knockoff Uggs in the corner of the room. Shelby wears plain white socks.

I peer over the high-up window's ledge, where a row of colored glass jars and vials stand waiting to be used. The snow is piling in huge white drifts outside, a cascade of frozen water drops, each six-sided flake, delicate and vulnerable.

I would ask if Shelby would go outside with me, but her curled figure is slumped in a deep sleep. Pushing each argyle toe into my boots, I hop out the door and wander down this house's long, lonely hallway.

The door opens with a startle of cold air. A snowflake flecks my brown arm, and if I peer close at it, right before it melts, I can see all the crisses and crosses and twirls of the ice.

I stand for what feels like years, dressed in a grey tank top and tight, stretchy black shorts, my feet stuck in the boots, dug in the snow. The sky keeps falling.

After I've become aware of my feet and that they are uncomfortably cold, I tug my boots out of the rising snow and trudge back to the porch, where I watch a while longer as a tiny black bird pecks at a mottled-brown seed stuck in the iced over birdbath.

Once inside, the modern central heating system envelopes my arms, legs, and face. Feeling like I could walk on a cloud, drifting, wandering to the spare room, my room with Shelby.

I see her tucked into the mass of white sheets and pillows and the pale blue comforter with white frill trim, her tiny fairy frame looking even smaller.

I pull myself into the next bed, which leans in the corner, underneath the window, as snow falls. The endless white pillows that hold my head, sheets on blankets on sheets on an identical comforter, this time pink.

As I see the snowflake twirl outside my window, sticking to the foggy glass, I'm finally put at peace, at least for today. I don't really wonder for the rest of the night until I fall asleep. I just watch the snowflake on the window.

And as I fall asleep, I dream of deep snowdrifts and blue eyes and armchairs and skyfall.

I am at peace.

At least for today.