I’d packed weeks ago. It wasn’t a case of what he'd done or not done, or what I’d said or not said, but this was it. I was ready and willing to go. My bag with my most necessary items in was closeted in the hallway cupboard and my clothes were neatly placed on the chair. I could see them by the shaft of moonlight gently filtering through the gap in the curtains. I lay there barely breathing, painfully aware of the heavy weight next to me and the rhythmic dissonance of his snores. It wasn’t his fault. It never was. The gap between us seemed insurmountable as I shivered for warmth. It was always so cold before dawn in that house.
I’d followed him to this place and occupied myself running this house. However, it had not taken well to me and it was not something I could stamp my mark on, steeped in the memory of people who had gone before - it was no home. How could I delight in a tiny hovel that I could neither improve nor fit my possessions in? I felt as if I was being forced to fit in with his plans as a commodity rather than an equal, and that can only mean it was time to go.
It was only by chance that I’d met him. He was not my “ticket out of here”; he just sped up the inevitable. At the vibration of my phone alarm under my pillow, I dressed and went downstairs. Pale yellow light filled the tiny kitchen. I propped my note on the table alongside my keys, got my case and slipped out into the dew.
Outside the world was coming alive with possibility in the damp, cool morning. Was today the day of my rebirth? Was I just running away from reality? How much easier it would be to be a sparrow - a tree for a home, a life on the wing; no agonising decisions to make, no consequences that follow. No people to hurt. A sparrow could die tomorrow and no one would mourn. He hopped along beside me, curious, hungry.
Sitting on the bench where we agreed to meet, I mused on how he was my dawn. My new sunrise - what promise it held; warmth, places to nest, find food; it’s tendrils growing ever brighter and creeping across the horizon. The dew being warmed and fading away leaving only a trace of what was to be seen before and the chorus of feathered life heralding its coming. Who is not humbled by nature in its majesty? The lesson of being one small bird in one glorious flock, one neat blade of grass, one drop of dew ready to catch the sun’s rays.
He did not come. I only know this because he never asked why I wasn’t there. I was back at home, making toast and eating it in the garden, soaking up the dawn. It was glorious.
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