I awoke to the touch of my mothers’ hand upon my shoulder. Her soft, smooth fingers recognizable as the hands that have held me since birth. Breathing deeply my nostrils are filled with her heavily perfumed scent. She smells of roses and I have long since assumed that it comes from the many smooth rose gardens that rim our house. I feel my mothers’ face in an affectionate way feeling the straggles of hair fall around her thin face. I have assumed that I must look somewhat like because as I feel her jaw line I trace along my own, I run my pointer finger down her nose and mirror the iamge on my own, I pat her cheeks and then my own. We feel the same except my touch is sensitive to the coming wrinkles upon her skin. Her skin has begun over the years to feel of paper and the wrinkle increase but the bone remains the same. The only difference between must be that she is aging and I am not.
I sit up in my extremely cushioned bed feeling a slight breeze blowing against my face. I feel my hair slide to my left and determine that the wind must come from the open window to my right. I turn my face towards my right o receive the full blast of the wind against my face; it quickly drys out my blank staring eyes. I begin to feel around on my blanket for the hem, every stitch a prominent bump to my fingers. I have often traced the pattern of my quilt and felt out all the different patches. I know which way every swirl turns and which vine penetrates through the next square. I know all but the colour. Finding the hem I grasp it in my hand and throw it over my legs releasing them of their warmth. The cool morning air prickles my skin and goose bumps appear. I slide my legs along the cotton sheet which is soft but not as soft as silk against my skin. My feet come to the curve of the mattress and I place them upon the ground. My toes prickle over the rough hard wood feeling out the loose slivers.
I reach my hand over to the knight table feeling for my glass of water. Running my fingers along the smooth wooden table top their path is interrupted by my goal. I grip my glass firmly around the middle and take a sip. My tongue is brought to life by the cool water. I taste the blandness of water as well as the settling of the nights dust on the surface that small trace of dirt. Placing the glass down, I stand, my knight gown blowing around my knees. I walk cautiously towards the window of which I long ago memorized as exactly fifteen floor boards away from my bed. I shuffle my feet along the ground feel the groove of each panel, counting as I go. I reach the window, the wind brushing through every strand of hair. I lay my hand on the on the plastic lining of the window the ups and downs marking my fingers. I breathe in deeply and I smell the outdoor world. I smell the pollinated flower a floor below, I smell the bark of the trees deep and rustic, the animals mix together, smelling of sweat and dirty fur. I smell my breakfast below through the kitchens open window. I breathe in the taste of the bacon and eggs on jam toast, and in the distance I smell salt. It is far because it does not come through as strong but I know that it comes from the sea and I could walk there I wanted. I raise my hand against the edge of the window frame finding the window glass, I pull it close. I see no sight, I hear no noise, but I am aware of everything that surrounds me.
