A fleeting murder of crows leaves a trail of ash-black feathers as they fly by. On the back patio, a small-framed girl dutifully lays out her mother’s moth-eaten laundry to dry. She shivers delicately. The summer Sun, once scorching, now but peeks behind the overcast clouds. Her back to the house, she brings her cold hands up to her face. Her frail, dirt-stained fingers gently massage her temples, fading her determined expression away. She is tired. There is no denying it. A quick glance over her over-worked body is proof enough. Not a day over thirteen, it is almost in a surprising manner that she regards the sprouting weeds around her ankles. It is too stern. Too cynical, even. For as she lets her eyes wander up their wilted stems, she can’t help but think of herself. Unwanted; left to be plucked away and replaced by a blossom seed. Kind of like the photo album that rests on her mother’s bureau. The one with little Billy’s picture, in which where his beaming face once appeared there rests a torn-out smile. Flowers are abundant in her garden; they are over-rated to her. Yet she knows flowers are what Mother wants to see. And she knows she is no snow-white daisy.
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