1944 (the morning of)

Before sunrise, I rose. As a feather it felt, rising upon the heat of last night, tethered to no thing. And floated as if underwater, exploring an ancient vessel, slipping from one room to the next, till, there, a chest, of jewel and gold, of every worry released like bubbles to the surface. This is how I woke, like a beast burdened no more of yoke. And I felt the strength of ten. I felt it in my resolve, in every movement sure and quick, every step as if royal, as if the maiden rescued, as if the laws of life no longer applied to me. My lithe curves seemed divine, gymnastic taut, flesh blooded in life, fueled by unlimited possibilities. In that morning, upon that floor, in the quiet of snow falling, I breathed an air not breathed before, my lungs alive to grasp the day, hungry to swallow the hours, to devour the time before I saw him again. Too soon it could not come. Too soon. Like a bell tolling. Too. Soon. Too. Soon. Yet. Too soon he came. Bloodied of cheek, limp of limb, eyes dark, lost, vacant as lakes in the falling snow. And my morning, hence a hand full of hours, was as if another life, another time, as if a door shut, my treasure gone, my time expiring, the dim light of reality calling from the surface. A tug of my sleeve, pulling me up, away. And like that, he was gone. And whoever that girl was in the morning, she too, was gone.