She looked out the window her whole life.

She looked out the window her whole life. She would rather be out there with all of them- any of them, or just out there alone. She could never remember being there, couldn’t because she never was. From the time she came home from the hospital till now she’d been in bed.

Not that she could remember first coming home from the hospital. Could anyone remember being born? Oh sure, there are stories about having birth memory, but she never conjured anything there. It wasn’t as if she’d never tried. She had all the time in the world to conjure whatever she wanted. Oh, she had the time. She had the time to imagine what it could be like or would be like out there.

She’d read about being out there. In all manner and in all applications she’d read about it. She’d seen pictures, had observed movies, and even dreamed it on occasion. Now she happened to glance out to see a child running. The sensation of running never passed through her legs, but she’d spent hours tracing it down. In bed, looking at her own legs, lifting with her hands, bending them, working the sensation through, making it fit, comparing the shape and angles to pictures, realizing what it would be. But there was never any sensation. Only the sensation of her imagination. She never got frustrated with this. It was a task, an exercise, an experiment, and she had the time.

Today she let her imagination go a bit. Again.

O.K. now just a walk, say, over there to the river bank. Should she sit down and soak her feet or wade in? No, she’d dive in and swim across. Delicious, the shocking cold water jarring her, making her gasp. She’d had cold sensation on her hands and face when she’d splashed the first morning water out of the faucet on her face. Now in the river she’d gulp air, thrashing to stay afloat. Yet she’d be warm. Thrashing, can you feel that, thrashing. How marvelous. Free, flailing freedom. Delightful.

Her mother tried to get her to go out in the chair. To be out there. Somehow she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Her personal miasma would drown her if she left her room. She had the window and her imagination. She had the time.

But her reality consists of the chair, her bed inside, and her window. Her reality is a prison. It really is sad.