As I woke, the air around me hung heavily as I struggled for breath. A fear gripped my stomach as the memory of what happened hit me again. Throughout the night, my thoughts threatened to overtake me.

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Frankie strutted his way up to the entrance of the Post Office.  He took his usual seat on the edge of the huge round planter outside the main entrance.  Since the planter held only one skinny little tree, it left plenty of room for an impromptu resting place.  The office would be open for business soon and so would he.

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I looked up at the open window on the corner of 15th Street and Elm—the one with curtains the color of daffodils in springtime. An old woman's face emerged from the shadows of the room behind her. She stood at the sill for a moment and took in a deep breath. She looked out over the city and her mouth curled into a slight smile. She then closed the window and disappeared back into the darkness.

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Imagine you are in an art gallery and you turn the corner to find the most beautiful painting you have ever seen. The colors are vivid and the skill is of the highest caliber. You can see that someone carefully and lovingly placed each brush stroke to create such a masterpiece. You are so intrigued that you step in closer to read the artist's name below. Perhaps you’ll be able to find a small biography about the artist and the inspiration behind such a beautiful work. But to your shock there is no nameplate, and the work has no title. Frustrated you approach a gallery attendant and inquire about the painting's title and artist.

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