It’s drizzling outside. She wraps herself up in the blanket. She’s tired of her long illness, and doc has instructed her to get some rest.
But instead, she takes her diary from the drawer, where it’s been sitting, next to the cardboard-mounted photo of her, taken in the meadows of Switzerland. She grabs up her pen: a bird on the window-ledge. Showers. Cows moo. Green grasslands, pasture. Distant ringing of bells, hanging round the cows’ neck.
She feels words dancing, impersonating and fading finally. She tries to bring back the poems of her youth, and cannot remember much except the one, which she sings loudly on her birthday. A fatuous poem about her doll.
Back in the drawer goes the diary. She blinks and looks outside the only window she has. She stretches the sleeves of her mint green sweater over her hands. Rain splatters on the window.
A loud splash and she drenches in the water. Someone shakes her vigorously to awake her from the dream.