I was perched in the far corner of the room, snuggled up against the wall, looking out the frost-covered window. It was early morning and no one was awake. The sun was coming up over the horizon quickly. Some birds sang, keeping their reputation as the world's alarm clock, while others were found bringing food to their young. The trees were covered with ice, but the sun was shining, doing it's best to warm the world despite the cool breeze that meant winter. I turned back to the blank notebook on my lap, picked up one of my charcoals, and sketched the iced trees, glancing back every few seconds to revive my memory.
The window seat was where I always sat when things went wrong. No single word could explain how I felt at that moment. The sadness flooded me, surrounded me; there was nothing I could do that would make it better.
Though you could hear the scratches of pencil on paper, the only thing that ever made me happy was not doing it's job. Scratching the outline of my surroundings in charcoal pencils -- one of the only things that I enjoyed the most -- was not making me happy.
And this frightened me. Not only because doing what I did best didn't cheer me up, but because the thing that had happened would never change. It would never get better.The whole family saw it coming. We had just hoped with all of our heart that it never would.
But, of course, it had.