The day of Damon’s diagnosis, Camille’s sun went out. Every time she left her husband’s bedside, the vase of sunflowers on the window sill mocked her. Their smiling faces could not discern her reality, no more than the meteorologists could accurately predict the weather. More than a pane of glass hid her from the illusive sunlight. Damon’s jaundiced face---a chasm of despair and broken dreams---filled her night and day. She couldn’t find the pot of gold at the end of her rainbow. She didn’t want to try and find a happy ending to the story. All she wanted to do was turn the page.
A luminous moon invades the murky solitude of Camille’s bedroom. Her calloused hands pull stiff sheets up and around her neck. The comfort of a single pillow cradles her aching head. She grabs a Q-tip from the old box on her nightstand and methodically begins to dig the wax out of her ears. Tossing the wax-laden Q-tip aside, her mind wanders as a familiar Coldplay melody drones her to sleep.
Every night it’s the same dream. She spins in a field of wild sunflowers. Brilliant sun beams caress her face. Night comes. Eerie moonlight invades her former serenity. Suddenly, the flowers fade. Withered and aged, their lanky necks reach for a source of fuel. A single candle illuminates the darkness, while she anxiously searches for a sun that no longer shines.
People call her a coward. They spitefully whisper that she has no heart. They think the words will wound her soul, cause her to repent for the damage she has done by leaving. Their words fall on a pair of deaf ears, but her heart feels the contradiction. One light burns out so that hers can shine.