She was frightened of a moving shadow she saw out of the corner of her eye until she realized that it was of her own fingers that were shaking. Smudge of redbrown blood drying under her fingernails and she needs to wash her hands off of this green rock stuff. It doesn�t like her, she doesn�t like it. There is mutual animosity between a mother who loves her son and the things that harm him. It�s as if she�s hiding things just to protect someone who�s invulnerable anyway and she...Doesn�t care.
A mother does what she has to do.
And right now there�s an octagonal disk in the unused flower jar in the back of the longest cabinet in the kitchen where she hopes it�ll stay for a long time yet to come.
At night she dreams of orange flowers, tiger lilies and orchids falling away to leave the orange roses that had been a present from a boy too old to be her with her son. Too old, too rich, too needy and definitely, utterly, hopelessly not right for her baby boy.
She held the orange roses in her hand and the thorns had been plucked off so they didn�t prick her hand. The petals fluttered off and inside the flower was bleeding, dark crimson red on the golden haze of orange fire--she wasn�t keeping it for herself.
But someday it would leave anyway.