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I know it’s not very good. I’m tired and felt like writing something.

The crisp, delicate, plastic wrapped flowers fell from my mother’s hands onto the freshly shined wood of our front porch, seeming to bounce once, attempting to reach the safety of her embrace as they were before. I was sitting beside her, neat and pristine in my pressed white dress, my hair pulled into my two signature braids, though it had a special attribute today; two ribbons, the same as my dress, and one flower tucked behind my ear. I was only five, looking at mother with round, hopefully eyes. She was wearing her sun dress, the yellow one with the stripe. I remember noting this carefully, also noticing I was instructed to stray from my normal overall attire into the third of my trio of outfits. I had three outfits, but only two I wore normally. Mother told me that was the way a girl should be – "Classic, simple, and pure." I, being the eldest daughter, received the loving stroke of her brush through my hair, and the touch of her pearls to my neck. I had a nice, mother-outfit for church, which consisted of a red velvet button up top with a simple black skirt and my old white sneakers, spray painted completely charcoal. Sometimes, if I had cleaned the dishes extra well, or had picked a corn that was just so, she would shuffle her feet into her bedroom, emerging presenting a fist full of her only jewelry. I would look mother-worthy, with my outfit and the pearls, which added a class to my outfit I had never experienced before. For us, for the time, it was hard to come by.

I remember then, staring up to her, as the roses came tumbling to the floor, and as mother followed, wondering what Charles was doing, picking corn, washing the house, tending a garden that was barely swinging by, or perhaps dressed nicely, sitting on a bench, like me. It was a ridiculous notion; that I should think so much of just another six year old boy, but even as mother fell and as I leaned to her, his shining locks came to mind, and his willingness to share snacks aroused my affection.

The man in the blue coat bent down, wrinkling his perfect pants, his handsome face, before so composed, ready to face her, now streaked and lined with worry. I wish I could say mother’s face looked up, slightly flushed and mighty embarrassed, like when she forgot to tuck Eleanor into her bed and I questioned her on this, acting the mother part. But my mother’s face did not lift, her body did not move, and I sat beside her on the porch of my small, pale blue house, letting silent tears stream down my soft cheeks and my mind race anxiously in fifteen different directions.