You were so young, so tiny. You’d not even had dreams, not sought to see your goals blossom and bloom.
And here you are – in a hole, next to other families’ headstones all marked “INFANT” with a single date underneath. Could I get you one of those stones? A final blanket that might comfort you as you look down from Heaven and remember that your mother always loves you, no matter how young you were taken?
And here I am – moving on to the next grave, an unmarked patch of earth where sweet Ona, six, was buried last year.
So, I’ve recently been listening to a 19th century book wherein the author uses “blossom” to mean “woman hits puberty” and I HATE that usage. So I decided to turn that on its head and write it from a more frightening place.
This was inspired by Charli Mills’s Carrot Ranch prompt, blossom.