Mornings bring with it cold bright light and reality. It is during my first waking minutes, when they sun streams through the windows casting wispy lines across my bedding and lights of red beneath my eyelids that I awake and sure enough everyday it takes a minute or two for my reality to sink in. I have stopped feeling sad for myself. I remind myself everyday that there are people worst off then me. It is not a comforting thought, but in a sad sort of way it makes me realise that I could have been worse off and that I should be thankful for small blessings.
After breakfast, I shower and dress and attempt to write. I feel like there is an invisble forcefield between my fingers and the keys of my typewriter. My breath quickens and I feel trapped within the walls of my apartment. It is then that I pull on my jacket and wheel myself out the door, down the corridor, into the lift and as I decend into the world once again I feel drawn to the one thing that gives my life meaning.
The day is different. A cold breeze cuts across the park stabbing at skin. The clouds pull across the sky like a heavy grey blanket covering the sun. It is eerily quiet. The bark of a lone dog in the park sounds too loud shattering the walls around my thoughts. The sidewalk across from the park is deserted. A woman appears from within a cafe, pulling her coat tighter around her neck with one hand and a styrofoam cup in the other. She quickens her steps and disapears into an office block. People appear and disapear but the marionette makes no appearance. Soft droplets fall onto my hands and as the drops increase in volume I realise that today I won't be writing.
I continue waiting and hoping that she will turn up, but as the morning turns into afternoon and the afternoon into evening I lose faith and head back home. The apartment feels forgein to me and I find myself becoming disorientated. The typewriter looks cold and unfriendly. I move away from it and head to the tv. The news is on. There was an accident in the early hours of the morning. A young woman lost her life. I feel a tear running down my cheek. I feel like a part of my soul has died along with the woman. They describe her appearance and what she was wearing. No one has come forward to claim her. I feel my hands moving towards the telephone.
I am sitting in my usual spot under the tree. In my hands is an urn. There is a painting of a marionette on it. It is early and quiet. My hand shakily takes the lid off. I scatter the ashes at the base of the tree. It is a calm morning and so the sudden gust of wind surprises me. Her ashes rise in a swirl within the moving air. Gracefully it moves aross the road to the pavement. For a moment it swirls around in the same spot where she used to dance and then drifts off until all I can see are a few specks drifting down and settling on the concrete.
A smile tugs at my lips and I feel inspired again. I can feel a change within me. I will be okay I say to myself and so will she. My typewriter is beckoning once more and this time I answer with excuberance. The story pours from my mind, into my fingertips and across the paper. After many years I feel like I have gained the power to follow my dreams. As night decends my dreams welcome me and I embrace them with a mind clear of pain and sadness. I see her smile and I smile back. "We will be okay," her lips form the words as she moves into the darkness. I agree.