With feet up on the marble bench seat under the shed, she read Morrison, in the most delightful, quiet and secluded garden she’d ever come across. It was a discovery she chose to keep to herself. Wainwright played softly in her ears. She had had a dull day. These were the few precious moments of peace she looked forward to.
It was getting cold after sundown. The pages of her book started to look darker. She wished time to halt for a few hours. She peered at the few words she could read in the sparse light, staying there for a while longer. She looked up to see two old ladies attempting to walk another round.
Three kids ran about in utter disport with no worry in the world. She looked up at them and wished from the bottom of the heart to feel that way again. Is that too much to ask for?
The little girl plucked a tiny yellow flower from the corner; the boy followed her action. They both came up to her and handed three yellow flowers to her, as she sat there staring gaily at them. They ran away in smiles. She smelled the flowers, felt them. Looked at her book. Listened to the tunes playing at her disposition. She heard the whispers of the voices in her head. She gazed at the three kids. It wasn’t too much to ask for. For that moment, she had no worry in the world.
She ran her fingers through her hair, holding on to the feeling she knew was entirely hers. In that private moment of her private life, she let herself loose, as she drove back home, in search of something she knew existed, and was close by.
She felt… yellow.