My cousin gave me a glass box for Christmas
gina? or was it liz? they couldn’t remember which one of them drew my name and i opened it in front of gina and not liz and she was disappointed and a quarrel enthused
It had real daisies pressed into the glass.
when were they living? at what field did they breathe their last breath, be the comfort and shelter for a worm for the last time, have butterflies suck at their nectar, have bees tickle their soft centers, sash-shay left and right and in all directions in the cool evening wind, feel the coldness through their stems, tingling up to the delicate white petals down the yellow center to the wide green leaves down the thick stems and down, down, down to the milky thin roots to the ground? I wonder if they lived by the sea.
Liz asked me if i liked daisies, she had heard that i liked daisies. I clutched the coffin and nodded that i did.
but it was too late to set them free, they were a part of the glass, were melded against their will into a frozen, perfect testament to their youth. I wonder if they screamed.
