A Pot of Purple Pansies

ABBY LANZ

A pot of purple pansies sat on the sometimes sunny windowsill. As the petals trembled, they thought of what life would be like if they fell out the open window, only to be caught and carried away by a gale.

Over the busy city streets they flit, pausing only to ponder the idea of rest, before being whisked away to dance on the breeze some more.

When they tired of their travelling, they stop on the grassy spots of nearby squares. A child comes by, picks one up and strokes it, marvels at the softness it wears, like the brush of a hands on a cheek, like pouring cream, like silk.

The child holds the petal to the light, and watches the sun subdue itself to the purple shade. What it must be like to be so lovely, even the sun can’t resist the temptation to fall. The wind blows again and the petal flutters impatiently. The child lets go and the petal escapes into the sky, off to new adventures, new sights, new children.

The gust tugs the child’s hair, calling, twirling their locks invitingly. The child hesitates. Their heart beats in time with the thundering of the air’s beckoning. The child closes their eyes and feels the ground relinquish its hold. A breath. The air is pure. A touch, soft like a lullaby. The child opens their eyes to see the world far below, and the sky filled with dreams.