Catching Rose Baxter in Room 9
She slid through her memories, trying to capture one, fireflies filling summer near a croaking pond, her mother singing her name, her name, a slippery ell, like the one brushing her hair calling her misses, as if she belonged to someone, someone like that nice man who used to hold her with fever in the taffy of night, strolling through gardens, tall with purple cone flowers, snapdragons, hollyhock, and that bloom, that bloom holding the scent of a thousand fluttering memories, memories like fireflies skimming a mirrored pond, her mother handing her a jar, singing Rose. Rose! Get the lid!
Photo Credit: Fred Huang
I love the cadence and the imagery.
Wow! Excellent!