The art of falling (2)
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Arriving home, haunted by the memory of my green, gentle giants, my eyes welled with tears at the sight of the naked lawn. No one rolled down my cheek, though. Their time to break free had not yet come.

Slowly, I walked through the main door. I’d learned to move pretending my actions were a choice, not the imposition of my once broken back.

In the kitchen, Rosa waited for me. She hugged me, awkwardly, as she had always hugged me in fear of my mother. Regardless, her love was strong.

Upstairs, my bedroom had been aired and primped. On my bed, a yellow dress, suspiciously alike to the one I had worn ten years ago, had been laid out.

“For tonight. You always looked pretty in yellow,” Mother said behind my back, dislike dripping from her voice.

I turned...

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