Sunday Photo Fiction -The Premier Maître de ballet

flower

She sat on the wall, legs kicking with the tap, tap, tap of patient leather on wood. Even though she had heard her mother calling, she continued to stare at the pink flowers. They danced in the cool breeze, the promise of mystery whispering in her ear, words just beyond her understanding.

“There you are. How many times have I asked you to come when I call?  Dinner is getting cold.” Without looking, Jenny knew mother was shaking her head because she always shook her head when she was mad.

Instead, Mother sat beside her, wrapping an  arm round her daughter. She wanted to understand her daughter’s silence world . Why this particular spot? It was nothing but a patch of meadow sneaking into the trees, slashes of sunlight gilding the ground around them.

“Why do you come here, Jenny?” Mother asked, speaking in the certain way she did when sad. If only Jennie could talk, but she didn’t. Doctors said she would never speak, never be normal.

Mother rose and helped Jenny to her feet.  “I cooked your favorites.”

Small smile.

As they walked away from the clearing, Jenny twisted back for one last look. “I’m sorry, faeries.” she whispered. “I’ll be back.  Promise.”

 

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