My prompt today is to write something fictional. Well alright.
I remember how I envied the leaves that fall. How I wished I could just give in to the loss, the loss of light and what had happened and of that summer. The days got shorter the leaves just changed, without any complaints or grasping. In their last moments they turned the most opaque reds and yellows, bright with the early dusk. How I wished I could turn red. I was just dissolving.
Her day care smelled like my high school art room. Crayons and soggy carpet with the heater on. I peel the raincoat away from each one of her arms, she’s squirming because the other kids are already painting. I bite the grocery list in between my teeth, the paper is limp and the ink sprawls out from the rain. Her curls are blonde now but will brown as she grows. The tiny shoes, splattered with dense mud. Wrists the size of a silver dollar. She runs to the table and dips her hand in the jar of yellow paint. A glove. How she presses her palm into the paper, wipes a curl from her eye and smears paint on her cheekbone. I start towards her, reaching in my purse for a napkin. She looks at me, at one pupil then the other. I’m turning yellow Mama! Her extended arm. How I take my hand out of my purse, how I smile.