You are my innermost

Winter morning of winter night. Thousands slept in warm beds under togs. Town was a glitter of frosty rooftops. No car started. No bird stirred. All around was silent as softly fallen snow.

No one was up yet. Not one. All was one sleep. All were busy with themselves. Many would not wake yet, and not for some time. Too early, too soon. More dreams were needed.

Only one was awaking. She, with eyes barely open, dreaming the life in her. She imagined herself to be the only one to know for miles around. From everywhere she was fast returning, gathering to herself in glimmers, from her north, her south, her east, her west, she was coming fast in as light into day, in to her innermost.

The thousands slept, none waking. Only her. Awaking, just out of sleep, just in sleep, lying there with life in her. Life was in her belly. Life beat there. Under duvet her hands went onto belly. The fingers were sensing, softly stroking, as if with feelings of their own, feeling the life beating there. ‘My baby’ she said in herself, ‘My baby’. She smiled, in herself, to her belly. With the smile she imagined the life that grew there, seeing it as it would be, as the baby it would be like. It would be like a baby, her baby. A baby like her, that would be her like. Her like-life. Picture-perfect. She smiled at the perfect in her picture.

The life in her made a move as if knowing something.

From pretty blind over window were slats of light glimmering through, dimly giving off hints of day to come. There she lay, a body for a bed, yawning a big O, with the morning opening silently around her and within, the darkness in her halved by light, with life beating there, as a baby.

The thousands slept. The town not stirring, not starting. Still in darkness still in night, not knowing

Her life-like, beating from within, made a simple move, as if yawning a little O, as if smiling. The smile flew through, flying like yellow threads in her blue tapestry, the fabric of her dreams. ‘Baby, are you smiling? are you?’ she said silently into herself. ‘Are you waking too? And, tenderly, she thought like this for some time as if to a dream.

She rose, making over to window with pretty blind and peeked through slats with fingers. Outside, a winter day was approaching, cold as night. She could barely see more than she could feel. Against her body were floes of air like ice breaking around periphery of skin.

She stood there, bereft, at the window like the first one or maybe the last one left to look. All within was silent and deadly still. ‘Let me have myself as my friend…….may I learn to be alone…….of everyone you met was only you, you would be with always’ were her thoughts to herself, looking out of her body seeing nothing.

She hopped back to bed. She wanted arms around her then. Her hands felt on her belly. Life was still beating there. Her life. Her innermost. From far out of everywhere it had come, like the sun to her, like light into day.

Thousands were still sleeping, not waking. Would not wake, maybe never, thought she. She would be the only one. No one would ever know, would ever wake enough to know: this morning, this life-like, this only, this she.

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