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.

I revel at this moment fictitious solace, as I peer out my window at the moving trees as they rhythmically dance to a tune of misplaced sorrow. The patio door is left ajar, as I listen to the echo of birds humming in the distance. A cool breeze travels through the small slit in the doorway and trails itself by weaving between the cracks of my toes, tickling the hairs on my feet, and ruffling slightly between the bottoms of my dark green sweats. I try not to think, but my mind rests heavy, unsettled, and perturbed. This moment proves to be fleeting, as the delicate wind passes by briefly and dissipates into the harsh tendril-like air of a true disordered unknown. This solace is false, fake, a performance it seems.

I was brought back to the memory as my niece took her first steps towards the stage. I remember how her braided corn rolls polished the reflection of the sun.