On the morning of the first of June she awoke to the shattered pieces of pink sunlight reaching between the yellowed plastic strips that covered her window.  Giving the cord a violent tug only the groggy unaware mind of the mourning could give, the blinds shuttered upwards, allowing bits of sunlight to reunite with their lovers.  As a sign of gratitude, the beams took to the crystal that dangled from her window and returned as pieces of rainbows.  They danced across her pale face, the white walls, her dusty sheets, little pieces of fire with motions like falling stars.  For perhaps what would be the only time that day, she smiled truly, mingled her fingertips amongst those radiant shooting stars.

            As she watched them dance, listened to the clattering of the crystal against her window, she remembered a place three thousand miles away, a face three thousand miles away.  The rainbows were her wings, they flew her away, and taught her how to move like the stars.  In their colors she saw her home so far away.  The red was the first rose of spring time, the orange the fur of the fox; the yellow became the beech tree’s leaves in the fall, and the green the lush beauty of neverending woods; blue no longer existed but was instead the haze of the mountains that came before the indigo of the sunset, that came after the violet of the sunrise.

            The rainbows no longer existed but were floating memories and dreams, pictures of everything she loves condensed into bits of fire on her walls.  They comforted her, gave her hope.  Three thousand miles no longer seemed so distant, in fact she could buy a plane ticket and be there the next day, hop a train and be there in a few, fill her tank and be there by car within a week.  Or she could just stare at the lights and be there now.  Soon enough she’d be home, there was time to wait and let the longing grow.  Soon enough she’d be where the rainbows promised.