Re: Basement: Edge of the stage
Like flowers planted on a trellis, the rose and gardener reached for each other. The girl felt the floral press of petal. It was cruel to keep flowers pressed between the pages of books, pages made of once-living cousins, and she didn’t understand the practice. If one thought there was beauty in the thin-necked stem of an orchid, one ought take a seed and plant it. It would grow if it was wanted enough. She thought the same of the rose.
Pruning could curtail, for an eventual benefit. It helped growth. But roots were needed.
“Blossoms show their face to the sun. You’re hidden away. Are you shy?” The girl dipped her chin to look at the rose. She took the hand into her own once again and turned to the stage once again. She imagined a bulb tucked safely away in a bed of soil. One hand found the curve of rose hip and pushed. If the rose wanted a vase, if she wanted water, rather than dirt, the girl couldn’t deprive her. Picky as roses could be, they often needed coddling. The girl’s hair was a dark halo in the brightness aimed at the stage of puppets. “Go up there then.”