Yellow Sweater

We are complex. We are amalgamations of our circumstances, genetics, and history. Our perspective is sculpted by myriad factors.

My room smells like the roses my grandmother gave me. One is pink the other is yellow. They are fully unfurled. They are held together only for the moment. Each petal is suspended, floating, about to fall. 

My tablecloth has sunflowers on it; five big ones, bright against the dull white background. When I look at them I feel a strange sense of disquiet. I want to stand on my chair and scream at the blue sky and crunch loudly as I eat my toast.

I let the wind make me graceful. I let my music spin around me. I let the gold light filter through the green leaves. I let it all land on my nose, my stationary nose. There is grace in being held, in holding yourself up.

I found a piece of myself shopping for bread, smelling the round loaves and deciding which I would like to eat. I remember grocery stores: neat rows of vegetables and cans.