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By wistful Date: 2001 Aug 14 Comment on this Work [[2001.08.14.01.42.16647]] |
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She sat in rapt contemplation of the tiny tender flower she was slowly, methodically destroying. She wondered at how this age-old childhood ritual had come to hold so much importance to her now. "He loves me . . . He loves me not . . ." Her heart raced as she thought of him. The thrill of excitement when he touched her. The chill of despair when she awoke in the predawn darkness, finding he had never slept, only stared into space in an empty, hopeless trance throughout the night. She was running out of ideas on how to pierce his sadness and claim his heart. And now she was reduced to shredding a defenseless daisy as a final, feeble charm. A summer breeze had played all afternoon with the wisps of hair that escaped her untidy ponytail. She hardly noticed it now as she sat mesmerized by the power of the spell she worked with her flower. Feeling neglected and ignored, the wind rallied once more for a goodbye gust in daylight's last hour. And with its final gasp, the breeze buffeted the fragile flower, swirling the last of its petals up, around, and away before she could complete her count. A small hot tear fell upon the naked flower stem, toppling it from her weakened grasp. She would never know how the charm might have ended. And somehow, that forced her to see the answer she had avoided for so long. She would never know his love. |