Crumbs of Unfestive Cake
The posy grew crispier and
more fragile over time in its
attic perch, slyly moving from
box to box, stack to stack. If we
should happen upon it, we’d be
surprised anew by its stealth and
meanness. Cheap mishmash even at
the beginning, it failed to spark
joy in its dotage. Over the
years, we stuffed it into smaller
and smaller boxes and one day
we found it cringing along with
crumbs of unfestive cake, also
junked, in a plastic grocery
bag. It sapped our energy to
hold it in our hands. Like anti-
matter, we said, recoiling. The
flowers had never agreed to
what they had become and we felt
ill for them. We had come so far
over the years and they had not.
How could we? How could they? Either
we weep or they will, half-arsed weeds.
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