Hatched

Wrapped in pale hues of pink and lavender, hair wrapped haphazardly into an unraveling ribbon, she listens for the sounds of home, footsteps on the worn floorboards, the rhythmic hum of a dishwasher, the distant voices without words. A sad baby doll with a torn dress and torn skin, lays across her lap motionless waiting for life to be handed to her, waiting for her to play.

She is a small pile of herself in a large room made of wicker and white porcelain, decorated neatly with portraits of flowers and stenciled green ivy that crawls from floor to ceiling. She has memorized the way the walls move, their cracks, their faults, their asymmetry. She presses her cheek to the cool molding and closes her eyes, she feels closest to herself here, and she pauses.

The light from a dusking sun whimpers into her room and leans against her door, slowly dropping to her unkempt hem. She can see the warmth but doesn’t feel it, and raises her hand tripping the light. She watches it fall from finger to finger and welcomes company in its movement, in its dependability.

The day dips its head below her window, and a shadow of herself stands beside her. She takes her hand, fingers to wall, and she sighs against the silence and the night that is making itself known. She is home.