DAISY
Annie Zhao We were childhood friends, poking each other with grimy fingers and leap-frogging over the short white pickets separating my home from yours. My mom didn’t know I went outside at all, “Honey you need vitamin D,” she wasn’t as bright as the sun. Our little American dream didn’t arrive with the future or expire with the past. Instead it trickled through the cracks in the hourglass, like when we celebrated your birthday for the last time together... The oblivious daisies in your old front yard beam anyway, until your Uhaul runs them over.
TABULA RASA | NANCY DEDMAN | COLORED PENCIL
