Looking out of the window

She sensed an overwhelming rush of warmth thrusting from behind, a feeling she had forgotten existed. The moment had arrived when the past seven years - no, the past in its entirety - ceased to be important; it was no longer hanging on to her ankles, casting an obscure web over her eyes or pouring black ink over the pureness of hopes and dreams. She almost wanted to rush to the mirror but she didn’t because firstly, she was afraid that if she left her position at the window, the feeling would disintegrate into dust and secondly, the thought of looking at her reflection was somehow both daunting and irrelevant; the mirror was a joker, a swindler of fate whose background was false and future one dimensional. The mirror had held her hostage in this house for seven years, its superstitious nonsense was cold, hard, unforgiving and had turned her to an insipid lump of pale jelly.
Today, an envelope had arrived. She had been pleased that it was the usual postman. Whilst she accepted that he would inevitably be sick or have holidays occasionally, she did not like the change in routine, the way that the others’ bicycles didn’t squeak the same and give her fair warning of their arrival so that she could avoid being anywhere near the front door. A large part of her world was lived through the letterbox, the rest observed, a series of stills framed by the front window.
Today, the picture outside was flooded with golden sashes of sunlight and the passing children were wearing vibrant grey school cardigans and brilliant black shoes gleaming like cubes of coal. Today, looking out of the window wasn’t enough. Today was her birthday and she was going to make it as far as the gate. Perhaps.