The sky would be blue

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One day, she vowed she would run. She would get a surge of courage that would course through her veins and erupt. The sky would be blue and the clouds almost transparent, and the sun would be burning a hole into the ceiling.

One day, she told herself, the house would be empty enough. She could steal across the loose floorboards and she wouldn’t wake a soul. She could take food from the kitchen, a blanket, a toothbrush. And she would exit by the back door. She would lock it and put the key under the plant pot with the geraniums in. Like she did every day. And then she would run. The trees would turn their backs, the leaves would pave the way and above her the sky would be blue.

It would be the day the birds sang to the heavens. The day the rooster crowed from the back yard. The day the sun rose up amongst the stars, whispering them away with the twilight: that would be it. When she could put on the trainers she didn’t mind getting muddy, shoulder her rucksack and go. She would walk into the quiet and let the wind brush through her hair. The roads would be empty, no curtains would be twitching and the sky would be painted blue.

She would tell it to no one, and no one would ever suspect. She would keep her head down and melt into the forests and streams and green, until people forgot her name. Until her memory drifted into the part of the mind reserved for ‘what could have been’, the one muffled by grey. But she would run regardless, she would fly through the fields, she would crash and tumble and breathe again. The stars would shelter her at night, as the darkness came and went. The sun would wash roses and amber hues across the velvet, creating dawn from a blank canvas. And when the day came, announced by the birds, overhead the sky would be blue.

Photograph: Dave Walker via Flickr and Creative Commons

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