She talks to angels

[Title sourced from the Counting Crows song of the same name]

She was a little girl in a wild, overgrown garden and the tall grass dwarfed her.
She was five, wearing the green dress with the pretty yellow socks and the white mary-janes. And she was bent over a tiny puddle helping catterpillars cross, and she would marvel at the way they curled around the twig.
She was seven, lying on her back in the grass when she saw the eagle. And he would soar higher with every beat of his wings. And it was beautiful and magnificent and her eyes were large with wonder.
She was ten, with her face raised to the sky, and she could smell the allspice leaf crushed in her palm and she could smell the rain.
She was parting the wispy wayward wildgrass stems and she could see in the endless distance a tall chimney, and the breeze was curling the smoke into fantastic patterns.
She was on her favorite mango tree as high as she could go, and she stood on tiptoe to see what was beyond the sudden drop of road along the slight hill and she saw the silhouette of a lone tree, leafless and wizened and bent against the indigo of the sky, and it made her want to weep.
She was the sun. And the earth belonged to her and she belonged to the earth.
She was a dervish, whirling barefoot on damp soil.

She trips and lands on the mattress, laughing.

Read more...