It was easy to forget in those days. Sometimes she held me so enthralled I forgot to make the new day for her and she would sit there on the edge of her bed wondering where the morning had gone. Sometimes I would be so absorbed in watching her sleep and watching the dreams I’d made unfold for her that I forgot she would need to wake up, and that – once awake – she would need a world there, waiting to greet her.
I had so many warm spring and summer days ready for her, as well as the golden days of autumn and those bright sunny days of winter she liked so much when the snow turned the bare world white, fresh and so new.
I used to like the way she would run out into the morning, often on the warmer days without bothering to dress in the clothes I’d laid out for her, just too feel the day pouring down on her skin.
Then, though, I started to forget things. I forgot to set the birds singing with the dawn. I forgot to open the flowers and to set the breeze blowing through the grass around her feet. Sometimes, I would forget the clouds or the cooling rain she liked to dance through on hot days.
Once, I realised with a start, I had left her alone for several days without even a morning for her to look out upon. When I got there, I found her all alone with no day and no world around her; just standing alone in the emptiness, which was all I’d left for her.
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