One by one she collected her trousseau items, as she lay waiting for the day that never came. It disappeared under the sun, the falling leaves, and somehow got buried under.

The blanket, it suffocates and squashes her every thought. He left without a word but took away her everything. Daggers hang on eaves, and she’s in a deep freeze mode. She no longer responds to the slightest rustle. There are no more footsteps, and the callbacks are frozen in her throat. She is tired and worn.

Stark, cold, and spartan..that’s her world now. The Glory Box has morphed into the blanket chest with fuzzy, pristine white blankets. The desert-like hoariness hurts the gaze. Her skin feels cold as alabaster, and the bones ache.

A sanguine youth feels locked away from her reach, and there’s no memory of how it once felt. No creature visits her, neither a butterfly nor a bee. The road yesterday is no longer familiar, and there are no comforting spaces. She has buried everything. Where is that park bench they sat together as one? Where is that park? The old landmarks are gone, along with their angles and familiar paths. Is her memory fuzzy, or is it a temporary squall? It covers and stifles everything she sees, and the fog in her mind rises like a shroud.

There is no glow in the embers, and it mirrors how she feels. Dull, ashen and cold, she is like her desire within. The fight made way to temperance, followed by restraint, and now it is securely locked in abstinence.

The rebellion first rolls in like a silent cat. While she sleeps, golden mustard flowers bask in the gentlest sun. She remains unmoved, but a slow thaw has begun.

Something hurtles down in full force, nearly knocking her down. It blasts the icy shell with a wrecking ball. Confused, she is forced to stir out of an imposed immobility. The glacial heart betrays a vulnerability in front of Life’s virile force. Armor shattered, she lets the twitter, buzz, and sights take her captive! This much profusion after much parsimony, it feels unbearable! That candy floss of pink stages and orchestrates a prolific rebellion against everything she long denied herself. Puffs of mini roses pop like fireworks. They climb chaotically everywhere. Unsteady, she tries to hold ground, but an inebriation takes over, ending that long abstinence.

The invasion of brides in their white wedding cake gowns make her yearn again. Dizzy blossoms like confection and candy, in riotous colors with their fresh fragrance, and buzzing honeybees unsteady her gait. The scents, the sights remind her about something, but she’s not going to reason. Frenzied and feverish, she does not notice new stirrings within. Renewed, she rushes to act without remembering. What could it be? WHAT IS IT? It does not come back fully, but she knows she must throw something out to dig something up.

She opens the blanket chest. The white snows have all melted away, leaving behind bunches and bunches of jocund daffodils that gloriously toast, “Here’s to Hope!”