We travel

And our dresses are stained

With last night's meal.

Mama's hair is red

And it is hanging down her back,

Red, red, red.

My sister is

In the back of the wagon,

Asleep.

I dig threw her scarves,

Cotton blue, purple silk, and linen white,

Until I find the paper.

The poem.

She wrote it.

This is what it said:

Soft round ball

Of perfect faded yellow,

Slightly fuzzy pale green

Bedding

Engulfing it in a distant-past-life of

Love.

Lady of knowledge

Spreading her daughters on winding dirt roads

Only to have their scent crushed into the wheels of traveling

Wagons.

Sacrifice me.

Spread my seeds.

Whisper them like wilted secrets

That have been left outside

Too long.

Blossom.

Tender petals.

Grow.

Cecilia, wake up.