lumen-iter

It was a wine-petaled pansy that my mother pruned from the garden box; it reminded me that I had blossomed late and wilted. At fourteen I created pansy petals of my own, waking up with hot-fisted cramps and the proof I was a woman. I was not a rose, perennial, as I went from blooming monthly to not at all. I would rather spend a day curled up like the fetus I may never carry than flat on my back wondering why God allowed worse women than me to bear children.