She had woken in a loveless society that admired nothing more than its own reflection. She had commuted dank streets for years, with her coat collar tucked protectively in the crook of her neck; masking the putrid breaths of strangers, their voices ripe with pessimism. She had died savagely at the hands of stony scavengers, in their quest for food. But, she had drawn her last breath with a smile; having observed a set of doors that had opened into a new and fragrant society.
April finished reading the last paragraph of her manuscript, placed it on the kitchen table, and looked at her Mother, who was standing at the kitchen sink, daydreaming into the garden.
“What do you think, Mother?” She asked, rotating her thumbs in her sweaty clasped hands.
Her Mother turned to face her. “I’m left wondering what the new and fragrant society was like.”
April grabbed a pen. “Then I shall write on, for you, Mother.” She spoke the words of her story as she wrote; her fingers dancing eloquently across the page.
She had woken in glorious sunlight with a diamante heart encrusted on her brow. A stranger had greeted her with open hands; had given her his maps, his compass, his lifelong supply of food, his honest smile. And on her journey of life, she had looked to the psychedelic colours of the skies; had glimpsed the wings of eternity. And all the while, she had smiled, loved, and had thanked the universe.