The sky was a white canvas that Tuesday morning,
Waiting for the painter, her aubade to bathe her in his choicest shades;
For he had beseached of her to grant him one chance to show her what she meant to him and love her for the ages to come.
The sun came out enveloping her in the brightest of red and golden. He knew his shy admirer too well to understand what she needed. He could read her eyes and decipher her innocent soul. He knew how self depreciating she was…. Knew that she had used every ounce of her courage to overcome her fear and bare her soul to him…. Tell him that she had a past that none had any knowledge of…. That the dark cloud had once marked her… Marked her with that indelible ink that brought him the most glory and her the most shame. She never questioned the verity of his love but she was scared that he might look down on her after he knew the truth. What she failed to realise was that the illuminator, the master, had such a generous heart that a diminutive fact like this would never diminish even a fragment of his love, his respect for her.
He knew he had to calm her jittery soul. He had to reassure her that he still burnt everyday to keep her warm, that the wind still blew to carry the lovely aroma of the flowers to her who bloomed just so that she would be beaming with a beatific smile watching them, that the roaring surges still swelled just to touch her holy feet for once, that if he was the nucleus of the universe, she was his.
He said silent words of affection for her while all she could gift him was her heartfelt gratitude, her unconditional love for him. And as they embraced for the first time, the earth shook beneath them for it had never witnessed endearment so pure while Cupid stood witness to the most bona fide form of love imaginable.
That Tuesday changed everything for the vault of heaven. It taught her that not everyone is like the dark cloud. She learnt how to live. She found a reason to survive. She was reborn.