Ange’s response to the ‘surreal’ trigger.
I pulled back the heavy faded curtains, unfurling particles of dusty memories from their textile prison. Floating pauses of my life.
From this very window I would gaze through blurry eyes up at the stars. Those brilliant twinkling shapes so very far away. I had to squint to focus whilst resting an unsteady hand on the worn wooden window frame. My whole life, up to recently, seemed to be a form of assisted support.
This window had held my dreams, heard my weary thoughts and smelt my toxic pain. The drink had placed my life in a shoebox. Glasses of Shiraz, shots of Tequila and pints of Guinness replaced my family, friends and work.
Now, it’s different. No longer do January’s icy cold days require an armour of liquid comfort. Instead, the Wintersweet provides my soul with delicious nourishment. And soon the gloriously happy face of the daffodils will appear, carpeting the ground with uplifting song.
As I turn from the window, looking into the stripped bare room, a knowing smile breaks over my face. For now we are ready for the renovation. Purging the hardened oppressive décor for a fresh open interior. Never again will I see the lifeless, Common Oak Moths that once littered the windowsill.
They are gone, gone for good.