This is not the setting Gwen imagined, a nondescript hospital room. But it makes sense, these are the last hours of her mother’s life. If not with her dying breath when else would she whisper the secret she denied for a lifetime. Pastels and pressed wood. Gwen wishes there was more color. There hasn’t been enough time to de-sterilize the space. Gwen regrets not grabbing the fuchsia pink throw on the way out the door. She’s always craved color, the brighter the better. Even her dreams are vivid and saturated. When she was a child she described the recurring nightmare in colors: red, orange, hot. She irritated her mother for an entire year with questions and requests for a sister. And now finally, confirmation comes with last breathes. The nightmare was a memory. There was a sister, but not just a sister, a twin. And there was a fire. For the first time in thirty-eight years Gwen understood her compulsive need to buys things in twos.
8 min, 5.2.13
source of inspiration: a quote on Facebook
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