She didn’t know why she held the scarf, but she was sure it had something to do with the fact that she was in an unfamiliar world. She thought back. How many plays had she been in that included this black scarf with the rainbow geometric shapes? It reminded her of the stained glass windows in the church.

With that scarf she had become a real estate agent dressed in red, a psychiatrist donning black, a scheming executive in passionate purple.

She rubbed the silk between her fingers. She remembered the time she fed her grandmother chicken soup at the hospital. Her spoonsful fell on grandma’s chin and were dabbed away, like the pain from the broken hip. The morphine kicked in just as she finished and grandma clung to the paper napkin as if it was a precious gift. Then she drifted off into her unnatural sleep.

“I never played a nurse.” She admitted aloud.

She wrapped the scarf around her neck and walked toward the brilliant sun. “The scarf goes with everything,” she concluded, “even Eternity.”