Aschalew

Aschalew plucked an orange rose, which turned to sand that sifted and meandered through her fingers before meeting the dirt between her feet. So, she plucked another, hoping that this second flower maintained its shape and beauty for her to admire a little longer. As she broke the stem from the bush, she pricked her middle finger along with its thorn.

Undefeated, she continued by raising the new flower to her nose and inhaling its scent of clove, spice, and fruit. She traced her finger delicately over the petals, witnessing the harsh fragility of the flower contrasted by the forceful sting that it had left on her bleeding finger. She gasped and withdrew her fingers as the flower began to shift and morph in the palm of her other hand.

The apricot-colored petals closed and reopened continuously as if they danced the whirling Dervishes as a Turkish Sufi dancer might. Then, the petals morphed into minuscule luminescent star-like particles that floated upwards towards the moonlit sky. Eventually, the last bit of the flower left her hands and embraced the stars of the skies as if they had been old friends, reacquainting each other after a long journey apart.