She eyed me, the girl, trailing behind her family, the mother and the father leading the pack, her younger siblings in the middle, and she, the oldest just like me, with searching eyes and mischief in her movements. She plucked fingerfuls of hydrangea blossoms to spread across the sidewalk like seeds for birds, rose petals for brides, or the ashes of those who have died too young. Never did a hydrangea have such a lively experience than the one that was captured by the girl; who created a beautiful ritual for herself and those around her who cared to notice.
Christine Fugate is a Chicago native, storyteller and connoisseur of frivolities and fripperies. Instagram: @malastine