Amie's Window
With eyes partially closed and a surrendering smile
as if she were awaiting love's first innocent caress,
Amie sits by her favorite window in anticipation
of the shear splendor of God's awakening dawn
and the warm engulfing embrace of morning's first light.
Amie's eyes open wider and her smile becomes broader
as the rhapsody of life playing on outside her window
grows more intense with each passing moment.
The birds sing their welcoming tribute to daybreak
in concert with the melodic sound of rustling leaves
as a warm breeze gently whispers through them.
With one tiny frail hand braced against the sill
Amie leans slightly forward in her little wheel chair
as a dainty finger with candy apple red nail polish
from her other small hand cautiously pushes aside
the life sustaining tether she has grown weary of
just to allow the consuming aromas of spring
permeate every tiny recess of her pale nose.
Overtaken by the heavy floral fragrances of
Jasmine and Gardenia clinging to the damp air,
Amie falls back in her chair with eyes closed
and a faint, but rapturous grin on her face.
The sound of people chatting and laughing
as they hustle along the sidewalk below
in concert with the distant rumbling noise
of cars whizzing up and down the highway
suddenly fills Amie's awaiting little ears
and her big brown almond shaped eyes
pop open to investigate what is going on
below her window this beautiful morning.
She stares longingly at a group of children
impatiently waiting for their school bus
wishing she could one day be standing
on the corner waiting like other kids.
Amie hears a familiar voice behind her say:
"Okay kiddo it is time for your last treatment."
As the nurse turns Amie's chair toward the door,
Amie sadly glances back at her little window
wondering if she will ever look through it again.
Several hours later a gentle wisp of breeze catches
the end of one of the maroon curtains hanging
alongside Amie's little window to the world
making the curtain curl and appear to wave
as if it were trying to beckon someone closer.
From a small hospital bed across the room
the weakened voice of a small child calls out:
"I will definitely see you tomorrow Mr. Window."
Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2016
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