Mrs. ... (Mrs. Ellipses)

When she wakes tomorrow her name will be…Mrs.…Ellipses…
And she’ll live in a terracotta-brick and mortar brownstone, down an ivy strewn neighborhood lane, in The Village.
On Saturday mornings, awakened by the bright, golden orb, gleaming its outstretched rays into the crook of a crusty eyelid, her Mrs.-Ellipses-self will smell the dark, robust roast of an organically ground bean, crushed the evening before, in preparation for a noiseless (in lieu of bird chirp and cat purr) amble into the waking hours…lying awake in this gloaming, The Journal or The Times, inkily emanating fresh worldly tidbits, sit on the nightstand and she stretches. Leaning upward, extending farther. As in yoga-class, she gently strains a twist right, exhales. Inhales. Soft, deep, purposeful linger there. And then left.
Her Mrs.-Ellipses-self, eyes closed, scans the mental laundry list of tasks for the morning—the pen and ink sketch of the day ahead. Just as quickly, she shakes this off—blinks her eyes open, sweeping the habitual need to categorize, prioritize, and plan into that waste-bin of her mind…(retrievable at a later time). Instead, she deems, a softer, gentler focus to a meander into this day. A slight stumble out of the covers, she visits the bathroom for a splash of cool water on her skin, and then saunters into continued, sunlit stretching—toward the delicious waft—her morning wake up call.
The soft reverberation of a jazz tune faded in the background noises of this Saturday. She takes a jaunt upstairs, two hand-molded-mugs brimming steamily, to find her Mr. So and So (that Mr. Ellipses) reading, or tapping on his laptop keys.
Delightedly she instead finds him, on the exterior pane of the Back Bay window. The one that looks out onto the patio, assembled on the roof of the building below.
He is painting undulating, indigo swirls—the origin of which seems that of wave and breeze.
It is a mural, for her. A reminder of the water—abysmal and ambiguous, just below the surface of her integument—that thin layer of epidermis, between frailty and strength, darkness and light.
The lapis-hued gift dries quickly in an autumn wind. She ventures one bare footstep at a time to peek upon the masterpiece, she peers. The inky-dollops…almost violet in places. Her eyes well as they absorb, like a sponge, newly drenched in the succor of a spill; she is satiated with blue-love-light and as she tastes the delicate morsel of it, she divines that to her right, a blood-orange sun has eviscerated the sky, exposing the heart-meat-openness that begins at center and extends everywhere. No longer does the empty sway of a clock’s tock; tick a tune of doldrums. No longer is a once blue-grey-visage, clouded.
Like a lantern, this illumination transcends the evaporating cloud-cover. Delving deeper. Pouring forth; opening the creaky old attic door of fear.
When she wakes up tomorrow, her name will be…
Alive. Not because of this “him” but by virtue of her own heart. Unafraid. Unforsaken. Unabashedly all right; she is, Mrs. Ellipses…