Please Leave the Window Open
She lightly holds onto his frail hand as if it’s a glass of water from Babylon. Morning’s primrose glow exemplifies the shadowed lines of his skin. Within a mere handful of days his health has deteriorated to the same degree as an hourglass nearly void of sand.
Throughout his life, this man had been the sort who chose to waltz rather than trod, likely owing to the fact that his father had instilled in him a seed of bottomless resolve during those early, tender years of ponderance. Because of this, his subsequent endeavors were saturated with brightly colored ribbons and hearty applause, rounds of firm handshakes, rose petals, trophies, and teetering throngs of cooing devotees.
Now, however, the particulars of a diseased condition have rendered perseverance inconsequential and he finds himself tethered with synthetic veins and the weight of stark linen feeling unusually heavy upon his rib cage.
“I’m here my love,” she responds in earnest.
“My wife, thank you for staying by my side,” he briefly pauses before adding, “will it be long before our daughters arrive?”
For a moment the grief upon her brow deepens. “They both had to reluctantly catch return flights this morning. Do you not recall them spending yesterday here, at your bedside?”
Just as he begins to mull this contradiction over, a sudden draft molds ripples into the fabric of his bedding. Sybil instinctively turns toward the unfastened pane of glass.
Their hands remain connected as he says, “Please leave the window open; today the wind flutters with neon wings.”