What are you Waiting for?

A ray of sunshine pierced its way through the encrusted dirt on the window. It had been many years since a window cleaner had paid a visit to the cottage in the woods, if ever. The light danced across the room, settling on a spot on the far side of the heavy oak table, forming a little pool of light. A spotlight, Gilda thought, remembering how, in another heartbeat, she had been drawn to the light, adored using her voice, her body, to create a spectacle on stage. It had been a roller-coaster of a life, an advert for the highs and lows of the human condition. Sometimes as traumatic as a Shakespearean tragedy, sometimes as ridiculous as a good old British farce. Gilda closed her eyes, swept away on a tide of memories, breathing in the musty smell of the kitchen and the fresher air that seeped through the broken pane in one corner of the window. 

If anyone had entered the room, which they almost never did, they might not at first have seen a person. Curled in a tight ball and nestled into her own body shape in the squishy, dust-covered armchair, at first glance, Gilda resembled a bag of rags in a selection of blacks, browns and greys. No colour. She moved sometimes, of course she did, she wasn't dead yet. But she was most economical with her movement. She would do laps of the kitchen, the only room in the house not cluttered with too much junk to be traversable. She tried to count the laps, but inevitably lost count after 7 or 9 or maybe eleventy-two. The number of laps also depended on how she moved. If she took tiny, dolly steps, there would be less revolutions of the kitchen, but if she pretended to be a giant, striding as though moving from rock to rock across the causeway, she could get a few more in.

Today, she hadn't planned on moving much. She had a book beside her, something about dragons and that should keep her occupied. She might nibble on some cheese and crackers like a mouse. She might even share it with the mice who nibbled their way through the skirting boards to say hello. Then she looked at the circle of light, beckoning to her from across the room, mocking her gently. "Come on old woman, what are you waiting for? She shook her head, opened the book, and started to read. But she couldn't concentrate, those five words rattling around in her head. The sunbeam had a point. 

Slowly, mindfully, Gilda pushed herself upright and slid her legs onto the floor, standing in a surprisingly fluid movement. She walked slowly towards the circle of light until she was standing right in the centre, feeling a slight warmth on her upturned face. Gilda bathed in the sunlight, swaying slightly, feeling the years drop away. She became 70, 55, 30, 18, 10, 6, 0. The light began to lift her towards the window, embracing her in its womblike warmth. She looked back at the bundle of rags on the old, comfy chair and breathed a sigh, not of death, but of new life.