sasperella7
She smoothed her daughter's hair into place, long strands separated and then intertwined. She thought of all the times she had done this before, with less significance than now; before school, after, in the evenings wrapped up on the sofa. Gentle but firm, usually; less so, once or twice. The night of the ball she'd woven in wildflowers, blue to match her eyes.
"Safely home"
Rolling her eyes, "I know mum."
For the last time she smoothed her daughter's braid, then with scissors snipped it right off, clutched it close.
She licked her lips and tasted salt; kissed the tips of her fingers; shaking, touched them to her daughter's cheek; skin stiff, cold. Unrecognisable.
The crushed ice in your glass crunches like footsteps in snow as you swirl your straw. You close your eyes. The warm air makes you boyant, lifts you like a balloon. The sun burns naked in the sky, hot against your back.
You take a sip, shiver as you swallow. The lemonade flows down your throat, leaving the cold ghost of its pathway long after it has gone.