sunflowers
“She resents me.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. For having a life.”

It is said quietly, listlessly, a new sort of indifference creeping into the corners of her voice where silent excitement used to reside. The stem between her fingers gives a delicate crunch as she twists it from the ground, and when she looks up the sky is blinding.

There are these quiet moments colored mustard in her memories, she knows, that edge in when she least expects. Squinting into blue light, its one of those times, and the green around her is cancelled out by the distant sounds of the past. She can’t directly recall, but the fleeting familiarity isn’t a new sensation and she lets it wash over her.

There is a pause, and the branches of a poplar creak a far way off, fat birds perching between the leaves. It’s then that he says, “Did she ever get the chance?”
“Who?”
“Your mother. Did she ever get the chance?”
The girl and her companion stare at each other before she turns away, eyes lost in the petals of sunflowers, the brown center an earthy sunbather, the stem arching gracefully. “Maybe,” she says, but it’s lost in the breeze.

Her skin is warm and pink, and she’s sure the hours have been slowly melting away from her, never to return, so she stands and brushes the backs of her thighs before turning away from him. It seems, lately, that this is her preferred stance and the thought is quickly lost as her peripheral picks him up in slow motion. His hair catches the light but she blinks the gold away.

dream