When I walk, with my daughter’s small hand in mine, I see flowers despite it being December. The kind of flowers that survive the winter; short stocks and yellow tops surrounded by burnt red ash leaves. My daughter always bends down, puts one hand to the gravel and grabs the flower with force. She holds it up to my face, as far as she can reach, and she smiles at me with her little girl smile. She is unaware of everything in that moment save for the flower which she will carry all the way home.

When I am unlocking the door her hands will attempt to push it open like it is locked box and her fingers the key. She will run to her room, her boots dirty, and point to the small glass filled with water on her white dresser. She will point at it, eager, and state “UP. UP. UP” I look at her, this little miracle of mine, and bring the flower close to her nose, “Does it have a smell?” I ask her and she looks at me, her face surrounded by the curls that are more His then Mine. But soft and tight curls just the same.

The world feels a little bit rusty now. It is simply her and that flower and that is all that matters. Her and I.

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