Laundry Day

Soft, yellow cotton. The blanket hung from the clothes line, swaying in the warm summer breeze. The tiny girl was at her feet, cushioned on soft blades of grass, arms outstretched, seeking to wrap berry stained hands around sun drenched cotton.

“No, baby girl,” she gently scolded, “not until Mama gives you a bath.” The tiny girl gave her a sleepy pout. She smiled. “Did your Daddy teach you that?” Mama placed the little one on her hip. She smelled like sunshine.

Baby girl gripped Mama’s smiling face with sticky fingers. Their laughter floated through the neighborhood; special, sacred, sweet.

The Office Furniture/Art Gallery Emporium

She closed her eyes and imagined what wonders awaited her there. Fabric rolling chairs that smelled of stale coffee.

Ink stains.

Metal filing cabinets.
Burnt plywood landscapes.
Found object figurines.

Credenzas.

The absurdity of the moment made her giddy. A golden flower bloomed in her core and filled her with a warm, glowing light.

A light that flickered. Like street lamps with commitment issues.

With eyes wide, she ignored the signs of broken pipes and air that smelled of forgotten words captured on mildewed pages moist with time.

One spore was all it took. She stepped forward.

Unaware that adaptation had begun.