![]() ![]() They, like humanity, are chemical replicas of what they should be. Other than my mother’s flowers, there are those wilting carnations that shopkeepers sell in the city, dyed pink and red for Valentine’s Day, along with red roses that always look rubbery or parched in the windows. The only time flowers bloomed in our neighborhood was when she was alive. They would grow healthy and vibrant, thriving despite the wasteland of dirt and dust. This, I think, is the botanical heaven my mother imagined when she planted lilies in the yard. Closer to the house a hedge sections off an area with an inground pool, unnaturally cerulean. ![]() The grass is mowed into strips of green and deeper green. ![]() The sun is just beginning to set in yellows and pinks, and there’s a myriad of flowers in the garden. I try opening the window, but when that proves futile, I take in the view. I avoid my reflection in the dressing table mirror, afraid I’ll lose my mind if I see myself in this place. The wallpaper is made up of vertical vines budding roses, and they remind me of the bars of a prison cell. The dark polished wood of the dresser matches the dressing table and ottoman on the wall are generic paintings-a sunset, a painting of a beachside picnic. ![]() There’s a walk-in closet full of clothes, but I’m only in there long enough to check for an attic door, like my parents’ closet has, but there isn’t one. The room is fully furnished, as though it’s been waiting for my arrival. ![]()
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