Daisies.
Flower Child
There is a mosaic of sunlight glimmering on the payment. The street is quiet, except for the slight rustling of leaves and the quiet hum of the highway in the background.
The baby sits on a quilt spread out on the porch. She is quiet and her golden curls are twisted into two little braids that lay gently on her shoulder blades. She is wearing the pink jumper that Grandma had gotten her for her second birthday. She is building a palace out of blocks.
The wind is soft and humid. The air smells rich like coco butter and smooth like the ocean waves. I am sitting on the porch swing. My feet are bare and dusted with soil and soot. I am wearing my old jeans and my plaid button-up blouse that still smells of his cologne.
Beside me is a pile of all the yellow daisies from the garden. Earlier in the year, we had worked hard to plant them all.
One by one, I weave them into a crown. They smell sweet like the sunlight streaming through the trees overhead. They smell like summer days and the streets in California. I swing and I weave the last of the yellow daises together.
I drag my feet to stop the swing and lean forward. I run my hand over her golden hair and fix her tousled bangs. She gazes back at me and her eyes are the color of the sea. Her mouth is a glossy pink button. And I settle the crown of butter yellow daisies onto her head.
The baby sits on a quilt spread out on the porch. She is quiet and her golden curls are twisted into two little braids that lay gently on her shoulder blades. She is wearing the pink jumper that Grandma had gotten her for her second birthday. She is building a palace out of blocks.
The wind is soft and humid. The air smells rich like coco butter and smooth like the ocean waves. I am sitting on the porch swing. My feet are bare and dusted with soil and soot. I am wearing my old jeans and my plaid button-up blouse that still smells of his cologne.
Beside me is a pile of all the yellow daisies from the garden. Earlier in the year, we had worked hard to plant them all.
One by one, I weave them into a crown. They smell sweet like the sunlight streaming through the trees overhead. They smell like summer days and the streets in California. I swing and I weave the last of the yellow daises together.
I drag my feet to stop the swing and lean forward. I run my hand over her golden hair and fix her tousled bangs. She gazes back at me and her eyes are the color of the sea. Her mouth is a glossy pink button. And I settle the crown of butter yellow daisies onto her head.