Everyone adores her. Tiny fingernails, rosy apple-cheeks, white ruffles, shined over scuffed shoes. Everyone tells her she is lovely, if only to see hand clasp, and curls bounce, and eyes beam. Over and over again, swimming through the hours, there's not a moment when fears or hesitations darken her bouquet. Today is not for her, but she wiggles and fidgets in anticipating the moment when all eyes will be on only her.
Each petal she places is a promise. Each piece that floats and coats the aisle hide wishes and deep commitments. The softest foundations prepare the way for the bride's final walk. A man waits in the place where the petals stop, holding out for the greatest of prizes. The watchers gape at her, but nothing can break the knowing gaze between her and the love at the end of the promise petals.
But why....why must they be so fragile and frail?
The flower girl remembers days at school in February when teacher passed out red and pink construction paper. All sorts of conglomerations blanketed the carefully scissored out hearts. Affections were traded, little girls dreamt of the princes and princesses they saw on TV. Sticky fingers gobbled silly little candies and wonderments fell about even the harshest of Valentine's Day realities--there must be some good in it, somewhere, after all.
But Glitter glue fades, and construction paper doesn't last.
Years past, when the ceremony's long over and the flowers have since withered and crumpled--the Church hall mourns, quiet and cold. Love scrapes the bottom of the bottle and the promises scatter to the winds, lost. How are we supposed to fight with only weapons of construction paper and petals? Why is it that we can't hang on, even when given the hardiest of tools? How can we tread promises so sincerely, and yet forget where we set them down?
And here, at the end of all things;
Who's going to tell the little girl that threw them?
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