something small, something taken

"The daisies behind her house grow without fail every year, a remnant of the summers past with her mother by her side, sunshine smile and sun dresses adorning her figure."

The daisies behind her house grow without fail every year, a remnant of the summers past with her mother by her side, sunshine smile and sun dresses adorning her figure.

The field burned to the ground five years later.

She planted more when she turned twenty-five on the eve of her mother’s death, soil pressed underneath her fingernails and smeared across her cheek. Now she picks them in the summertime, with bone-dry fingers and a sore back—there’s a bottle in her hand, but it slips through the cracks in her fingers halfway there.

A man stands above them on a sunny day, even though her vision is blurry and his outline is stark against the blue sky. He grows too-tall and thin, and she sees her mother in him.

She falls to the ground, gasping out apologies that fall from her lips in a river of emotion.

He only answers with a simple “hello.”

The End

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