A word, so sharp and new it hurts our ears, floats through the air above us. A day, scattered like fall leaves blown across the lawn, their direction unyielding yet aimless. White walls splashed with colour, thin curtains on squared rails, a smell both soft and sterile. Strangers, carrying kindness and smiles.
Children dash, laughing, falling in the snow, rolling, rising once more to run. Snowflakes dapple their faces like sun, candy melting on warm tongues. Bright clothing against a palette of white, sculpting pictures on the landscape. The world is not large enough for our playground, painting streaks of colour as we play.
Something lurks inside—
coiled in a tiny bead of red;
it can’t be outrun.