She waits, as she always does, on the south side of the room
The same chair, straight, hard
The only softness is the faded paisley upon the seat
But that comfort is not for her
The oak warms in the sun
But remains cold and hard against her black skin
As she hangs on its back, waiting
For her special someone
To notice
The beams streaming through the door beside her
Unseen but felt
Tickling her, bathing her, tempting her
With promise
The promise of adventure
Oh how she wishes she had the wings of a bird
Like the one she paints
In the dark
From memory
She’d fly through that door
Out there
The sun, the clouds
Fire and rain
She misses them
She almost remembers
Diluted, like watercolor
She draws the lily as she remembers it
She can see it
A light spot in the dark
Of her memory’s eye
The myrtle that should be blooming by now
Longing to set her gaze on the ordinary
That she may set her sights to the extraordinary
This Is what she was born to do
Nothing else
But she has no control
Not over when, not over where
Hers is not to ask why
Hers is but to seek the truth when it is asked of her
Truth in beauty and the beauty in truth
This…is what she remembers…
This…is what she’s missing…
So she waits
Today?
Tomorrow?
As long as she is here
In the same room, on the same chair
She is blind
So she begs
“Uncover my face. Raise me up so that I may whisper in your ear
Be my wings so I can soar over field and stream
Capture the beauty of now
To keep with me for then
Our adventure is out there”
“Let me teach you to see the beautiful in the ugly” she pleads
“Let me show you the extraordinary ordinary” she whispers
She feels
Familiar hands, comforting hands
She’s flying, lifted and carried outside
It begins…today is the day
Eye open wide, taking it in
Capturing life as it happens
Not perfect…
Not posed…
Just life…
Nothing is too small
Tomorrow, she’ll wait again
But today…she flies
Today she is…
Awake
50 Shades of Gray Hair 
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