I sat on the cold window ledge and leaned my forehead against the glass, looking out at the hospital garden. Brown earth, dried and brittle, had replaced the green of months before. I looked up at a bleak sky. Bare-branched trees broke solemn clouds.
I dislike in-between spots, those adolescent-awkward, neither-here-nor-there, twilight zones of somewhere places.
If it’s going to be cold and gloomy, at least it could snow, I thought. The dismal atmosphere seeped into my bones, into my mind, and into my heart. I couldn’t seem to move, didn’t seem to care. January and February are like that for me. The blues of winter and an uncomfortable foreboding at the start of another year fills me with melancholy.
But that year was different. It followed on the heels of a terrifying nine-month roller coaster: Will my daughter live or will my daughter die?….