E. Simon
She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but as she glanced down at her hands she was clutching fistfuls of daisies, carnations, and tulips. Their petals felt soft and smooth between her fingertips. She waited in silence on that corner: watching as the birds flew by, as neighbours drove home from work, as kids walked home from their friends’ houses, or the park, or the library, or the –
She watched life go on. Not a single person moved toward her as she stuck out like a sore thumb. She thought of her hair, her arms, her nose, and the angle at which her back and neck were – but she fixed none of them. She just stood there, holding onto the flowers like they were the last thing she had.
She hadn’t gone to school that day. There was supposed to be a big assembly. It was her last year of elementary school and she had never missed a single assembly. She was very punctual usually, only missing school when she was sick or had to go to the doctor. Today was different though. From the moment she woke up she knew it was.
Every morning since the first grade she had made either cereal, waffles, or toast for her and her brother – he was three years younger. Her dad never woke up early enough to make it for them, and he got home too late to make their lunches either. So she did.
But, today her dad was awake. Or, at least in the living room. She was sure he was sleeping, but she didn’t hear him snore like he usually did. She had packed her and her brother’s bag and walked him to school, but stopped before she set foot in the building. Something was still off; she reached down to touch a small patch of weeds in the cracks of the cement. Something in the way the weeds rolled against her palm told her to go to the park. So she did.
On her way to the park, she counted five squirrels, six worms, and two snails. One was a snail and the other was just a shell. She didn’t care, though. She propped herself on the swing and began to go back and forth and back and forth. Young couples with even younger children walked by, and old couples with old and wise smiles did too. She focused on the sound of the rusting chains as she swung back and forth and back and forth. It was an awful sound, but still, she swung. She didn’t care. In all honesty, she could barely focus on the sound; she was much more focused on the way that the leaves in the trees were telling her to go to Mrs. Lowery’s house.
On her way there, she noted all the sounds of traffic, people talking, and the occasional mourning dove. She had passed by Dylan’s mom, who did nothing but give her a quizzical look. Dylan was weird. She thought his family was weird. His mom always walked him to school in the mornings and picked him up at the end of the day. She thought that was weird.
A rock pricked the bottom of her foot, and she stopped. Today was different. She unlaced her pink sneakers and took them off. She placed them neatly on the edge of the grass and finished the walk without them.
At last, she was faced with the beautiful property of Mrs. Lowery. She had a wonderful white colonial house, with an even more wonderful gazebo and lake in her backyard. The gardens surrounding her house seemed to hold the spotlight of the sun for twelve hours of the day. Their petals glistened wonderfully in the morning sun. She could see the droplets of dew fall off them as sleepy bees buzzed by. She had always loved Mrs. Lowery’s house; it was always so beautiful and inviting. But, unlike her property, Mrs. Lowery was not inviting. She contrasted her wonderful, colorful, and happy home with her cold and irate attitude. The young girl had not a single positive memory of the crabby old lady. How could such a gorgeous home house such a mean woman?
She walked onto the edge of Mrs. Lowery’s lawn, took a deep breath, and everything felt…different. She wiggled her toes to feel the grass, but there was something blocking it. Her socks. She took her – now very stained and soggy – socks off and tossed them to the side. The way that the grass petted her soles told her to take one more step. She did. And more, so much more. Something in the way that the breeze brushed against her ears and tangled her hair told her to do it. And she did. The young girl could hear nothing but the sound of ringing and faint yelling and screaming as she tore into Mrs. Lowery’s garden. She wasn’t entirely sure, but something hinted at the fact that one of the screaming voices was her own.
When she was finally done she stood, flowers in fists, panting. The world went silent, and suddenly it wasn’t telling her to do anything anymore. No more talking trees, breeze, or weeds.
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E Simon is a young writer from rural Ontario. She dabbles in poetry, prose, and even screenplays. E has an infatuation with all things human; especially the connection between us and nature, art, music, and film.
Diamond Gazette 