Perspective of life

Maya Salerno '27

1  The room is cold and stale, sending a chill down my spine. I look forward to see a little girl laying in bed. The fluffy white sheets eating her little body up. As I move closer, I notice that her skin is pale, almost white. Her soft, youthful skin blends in with the white sheets, I release, she is lifeless. Her hands lay across her chest, in an unnatural sleeping position. As I move closer I smell medicine, and the burning candles that rest in the corner. I hear faint weeping sounds coming from the side of the bed. I look up to see a woman, maybe the child's mother, looking up to god, talking to him. Her words are too faint to understand but I imagine she's asking God for help. I can't help but feel a sense of emptiness being in this room, so I decided to step out, the sadness is too heavy for me.

2 I open my eyes, my body feels different, lighter, healthier, almost weightless. I look down at my body, except I'm not in it. I'm floating above the bed, invisible to everyone except myself. I look at my body which is no longer mine, and understand what has happened. The child resting on the bed is not the lively, bright girl I used to be. I smell my favorite sweet, cherry cough medicine, which is resting on the nightstand of my bedroom. My soft, bright white sheets are looking slightly grey to me today. The corner of my bed stained with tears from my mother. My night light candle is lit in the corner, allowing for minimal light. The sun is nonexistent, almost like it knew it was going to be a mournful day.  My mother, sitting on the edge of the bed, an expression on her face I have never seen before. She looks lifeless herself, she is not the same colorful woman I have always known. She is looking to the ceiling, talking to me? Can she see me? No, I realize she is just chanting the same prayer she would tell me every night before I would go to bed. She is calling god to guide me to heaven, to make sure I rest peacefully. I can't help but feel sad, the room that has given me so much comfort, will now forever be remembered as the place I was handed to God. 

3  My body is numb, I feel empty, lost. The air in my baby's room is somehow heavy, like it's trying to weigh me down. My eyes burn from the many tears I have shed today. My handkerchief is saturated in sadness. The smell of her favorite cough medicine lingers in the air. The darkness of the gloomy day eating at the small amount of light in the room. I look up to God with my puffy eyes, and beg him to watch over my baby for me. Watch over her the way I always have. I grab her cold, limp hand and imagine her here with me, the same bright girl I have always known. I examine the tiny freckles on her fingers, and her silky blonde hair. I hold onto these memories, as they are the last things that keep me with my baby.