She placed me on the very top shelve of a book case three months ago. I sat there since, quiet and gently bending in beauty and grace, my two soft petals and three tender sepals outstretched like a lion’s mane, the colour of calm light violet threaded with deep purple veins. My white specked throat enhances my blood red female lip, open and receiving.
High on my stem, I and my several delicate faces peer down on this room which seems to be both her work place and her dining room. There's a white wooden table in the middle, every morning she sits with her laptop and printer, she types, writes notes, makes calls, drinks coffee and talks to herself. When her child is home from school, she removes the computer and printer and places two dinner plates, the little one always has milk, the mother always drinks water. She asks her child how school was, she asks her what she’s been learning in math, and whether she finds any of it challenging. The child is animated, always eager to make her mother laugh, they giggle and tell each other funny things. The child never has the appetite to finish all her food, the mother wishes she would.
On Thursdays the mother asks the child about music class and the child is more lively and animated about music class than about any other school subject, the music teacher is funny and inspiring she explains.
The mother is happy when the child is happy, the child is happy when she can make her mother laugh or get her interested about something she is saying.
They are two separate beings; one very young, one mature. One thinks that by knowing Jupiter has sixty three moons she surely knows everything there is to know, the other used to believe she knew something. One at the beginning of the journey, where the laborious distance and trying bumps can’t yet be seen, the other had seen the incessant journey and felt some of its dreadful bumps. And yet, they feed on each other’s existence; one sees what she could be in the future, the other sees what she could have been.