Greening

I wake to a dim light peeking around the curtains, the house silent in the grip of dreamland.

These walls are so thin that I swear I could hear you breathing through them, so I slip out into the greening world as the sun slowly slides above the horizon. The last of the stars fading into the sunrise golden pink light.

The wind in the trees rustles as they speak with their neighbors, and the breeze plays with my sleep-touseled hair. Nesting birds stretch their wings and burst into song as the world awakens around me.

Grass under my bare feet is cool and dewed with mist from the sprinklers and I have a sudden desire to spread my arms wide, dive in and swim that green and fragrant sea, passing ladybugs drying their wings before searching for their aphid breakfasts.

With each slow stroke of my arms I feel that deep turning pain crack and flake away, drifting and sinking into the depths, like snowflakes in spring, melting and reborn as droplets of water as they land.

I want to stay soaked in that sweet sea, but I make my way to shore, back to the house and reality. The knob silently turns in my hand and I enter to the same dimly-lit thin walls, but something has changed.

The you-shaped void within me no longer feels so hollow and cold. Instead I find a greening bud unfolding in my chest and I curl to cradle the feeling protectively, but that isn't what buds need.

I unfold and turn towards the window, throwing the curtains wide allowing the sunbeams to dance across the ledge and I turn to face the light.