The Garden
Red and gold. Green and tan. Firm and soft. Smooth, yet the sharpest….
The portraits contained within those four walls were displayed for a sense of family. The sense was all that survived beyond years of forgetting. The hope shouldn’t have been lost; it would have been a distant dream, one that they should have grown up with, but things don’t often turn out the way you want them to.
They are only innocent fools. They couldn’t see behind the pretense; who experiences those processes and remains unchanged? The pillars which held the building together were crumbling, they wanted candles and donations for upholding something that was meant to be free. Believing costs.
Fridays brought hope and wonder; wishing for that newspaper to be sodden with vinegar, concealing the sweet fragrances of fresh morsels. After about seven, hope changed to bewilderment. The sweetness had soured, and around two, remains of hope would stagger in, lost after being woken at the end of the rails.
It was best to cling to the hope; even if it exhaled smoke into the wallpaper, expected complete subservience and relinquishing some forms of freedom. Hope would get lucky one day. Just not today… or any other today.
She sighed, and walked back outside; hope was not lost out here, in the garden.
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