Impa wants to write about the small, white room with the big, white bed. The room a white lamp has been picked out for and where a dark brown shelf will be put up over the white blanket chest. The room where the most treasured stones and the most beautiful flowers will be laid on the shelf and where pink branches will be painted on the walls that will stretch out at night, in the slumber that makes everything possible, waving quietly to the woman sleeping underneath and rustling to her in her dreams; ever on, safely, go on, go ahead, go. Dream.
Where, outside the window, the branches of the vine come curling over the edge of the windowsill, high above the garden, opposite the butterfly tree, right where the birds first start singing in the morning.
For there, in the little white room with the big white bed, someone wakes up every morning with a smile on her face.
But maybe the little room can't be written about. Maybe it can only be captured in that smile.