CREATIVE WRITING
Colours
Colours are underrated. There is an endless swathe, painting the world. Few people notice the colours.
Colours define the day, give it a mood, a temperament. Some days lie grey and heavy on the horizon, pass sluggishly by, as if they are on the verge of falling asleep. Others are bright and bounce through time with a grin painted
on the clouds.
On all these days the sun shone strong and today was no different. But as I gazed up at the sky, my mind drifted
back to a particular day; the day the light shone pale.
It was nearing noon. Even though there were few clouds in the sky, barely a trickle of light entered through the window.
It fell on the frame of our photograph, the bright sky in the background making her hair shine, while we both laughed. I
placed the chrysanthemum I had carried with me in front of the photograph, then turned to look at her.
For someone who had just escaped death, she did not appear victorious. Instead she lay quiet, not enough energy
to even smile. She seemed insubstantial, like the very light that trickled in the window. Everything was so still, the world
was holding it’s breath. I felt myself draw in a breath, just to make sure I still could. For a moment, I felt foolish. Afterall,
nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
It felt surreal, like a picture in a gallery. Oh how the artist splashed the light over the beige walls. See the clever brush
strokes that crafted the I.V. drip. Look, see the artist draw the lines of weariness into her face. Oh the detail. If I looked
closely, I could almost see her chest rise with a tired breath.
My ears filled with the clicks and hums of the nasal cannula. There she lay, still quiet. A sigh fluttered from her. It whispered through the air and faded slowly. I waited, hoping that she might wake.
A stray cloud passed over the sun. The nurse ushered me away, whispering something about visiting hours. He whispered assurances as I made my way out of the ward. As I looked back for the last time, I saw that even though she
was incredibly pale, her light had not yet faded.
My memories of pale skies and beige walls rest quietly inside. Often outshone, often drowned in a sea of vibrancy.
Somehow they still slip to the surface, bubbling to the forefront of my mind every time I look to the sky. So even though
every day the light shines strong, I will never forget the day the light shone pale.
Anna-Thea Littek