It’s been three weeks since the lawnmower was pushed from the shed, it’s spinning blades let loose on flourishing grass. Buttercups and daisies burn bright among the tall feathery green.
A little girl in a white cotton dress, knees to the grass runs hands with love through the lush softness. Flowers escaping one by one through tiny fingers. She imagines what it must be like to be a flower. Do they get bored standing still? She picks free from it’s stationary existence a single golden cup, examining it’s delicate body, holding it high to the burning sun.
Her questions are many. Are they born? Do they have parents? Do they die? She thinks they must because there are none in winter. Pulling another, she makes a friend for the first, holding them like tiny birds snug in a nest. She closes her hands as if a fly were captured there, peeking through a gap between thumb and finger, there they lie in the darkness of her clammy little palms, glowing, radiating, as flecks of sunlight fall on their buttery heads.
Taking a deep breath of summer air she opens her hands and blows them free. Within the strands of uncut blades, they hide. She struggles to find her floral babies.
Rising to her feet, eyes searching rapidly, hungry to find them again…but they are lost. She looks to the sky blinking out brightness of day. Her memory absorbing snapshots of blue, for the sky above is so very blue. The same blue as the curtains in her bedroom, the same as the towels hanging in the bathroom, and the same shade as mummy’s finest china.
Her arms swing out as if she could lift from the ground. She spins, dances in rings, a celebration of the day, of life itself, because there are many things to know, almost too much to feel.
Launching to a run, like a springy young rabbit she races through the open door, into the shadiness, the cool, the sunless indoors, to tell mummy and daddy of disappearing flowers – the mystery at the end of the garden.