Haste [h.s.]

~22~

* 16 weeks preggo *

I always thought that golden hour after a rainy day was like the sky's way of apologizing for changing your plans for the day.

The array of colors painting the everlasting canvas was different every time; a different bouquet of flowers as a token of forgiveness for the disturbance, making it painfully impossible to do the opposite.

I was never one to ever turn down a bouquet if ever given one. I was the kind of girl who'd cheesily pluck a petal, or save a single flower and press it between two books until it was perfect for me to store it away and remember the sentiment that came along with it.

The sherbet tones washing the clouds reflected on my skin through the shop's windows and gave me an idea of what the wonder of a tan would be, but it also brought out every freckle littered on my skin, each one marking up a story on my inked body.

It remained like that for the entire day, the rain taking momentary breaks every few hours and offering its best arrangement of colors to mend the gloom of the cloud's miserable temper.

Golden hours felt like home. As a kid they always felt like the closest thing to peace I could grasp, metaphorically so.

I'd sit on the roof just outside my window with a book and let the sun soak my soul and give me what I needed to get through any day under that household. Sometimes Hunter would even join and we'd either smoke or just sit in silence, it being enough than any words could ever.

It took me back to those days where my only escape would be my desire to run away with the sun and bask in the eternal sunsets from all over, to hold onto the sun rays like a lover's hand and let it take me to brighter places only my mind could paint on a clear canvas.

Kind of like Van Gogh — minus the ridiculously insane talent for putting his work on a literal canvas — I liked imagining what life would be like out of the four walls that housed me for so many years. I thought there was no escaping the deep well I was intentionally put in and left so many scars that I was surprised my heart hadn't split open after leaving.

Peace was handed to me in a cursed sealed glass jar that dared to vanish if opened.

I carried said jar with me for the rest of my life and stored it deep down where it couldn't be found by anyone who tried to find a reason to break me and crack the jar open in the process.

I haven't peeked at it since leaving Westport, a personal choice to look for a safer source of peace within myself that won't lead to any fatality in the end.

To start off the day off right, I drove around for an hour or so blasting Seven Days Too Long by Chuck Wood with the windows rolled down, letting the air sway my hair aimlessly until the gas light flickered on and I was forced to stop to fill up the tank before my shift at the thrift store.