Window

prompt:  line from a poem " When the Heart is cut, do not clutch it."


I sit by the window waiting for Michael's car to pull into the driveway.
The gentle breeze blows the last few red leaves off the large maple tree. I watch them one by one, counting them as they flutter to the ground.
The sun yawns it's way west ward bowing politely to the creeping darkness.
My eyes start to close. Only when they flutter open again do I realize I have nodded off.
I press my forehead to the cool glass, and my eyes focus on the pattern the frost has made on the window.  Intricate and beautiful almost as if it is etched in a lace pattern.  The driveway is sheet of ice shining brilliant in the morning sun, clear and unblemished. Laid perfectly over the black tarmac.
My very own skating rink.
My back begins to grow tight so I reach back and stretch. The noonday sun is blinding, so I decide to pull the shades down every so slightly. But first, I open the window a crack so I can hear the gentle rain patter and smell the dead grass coming back to life.  Birds fly down from the giant maple beginning to bud, quickly snatching up the worms inching their way across the dark asphalt expanse. The tulips have started blooming, but I can't share their chartreuse cheer.
The breeze has a hint of sun in it, blowing in the promise of warmer days.
I step back, one step, then two and sink back onto the couch but my eyes are ever forward keeping their constant vigil.
I can hear the pfft, pfft, pfft, of the neighbour's sprinklers watering their lawn and see the yellow, pink and blue childish scrawls of chalk on the still empty drive.
Then R.J. comes over, licks my face and whines. He looks at me with those soulful honest eyes and finally I give in.
He's not coming come.