This was the special day I wrote for her. I chose that early morning of springtime. I chose that day when, waking up, we realise the long winter is gone. There is sunlight, birdsong, and the first returning of the green world bursting out of the dull grey winter we have left behind.
I chose a morning where she did not have to be out of bed, unwilling in the rush of mornings never noticed. She could take her time; throw off the sheets and lie, feeling the real warmth of the sun on her naked skin.
I chose a house for her to live where she could walk out of the door still undressed, facing the world in all her naked honesty, as she had so often wished deep in her secret dreams. There was a garden full of those spring flowers, already blooming and alive on this warm morning and only a single cloud to give contrast between its white and the deep blue sky.
At the bottom of her garden, I'd placed a river, flowing gentle and slow, ready for her to walk into, cold with a hint of snow. A river she could wash in and feel connected to the morning I'd brought for her.
Then, when she got back home, she would find her favourite breakfast and hot black coffee waiting for her out on the patio and a soft robe to take away the chill of the snow-melt water.
And I would be there too, patiently waiting in the shadows for her to come back to me.
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