Ode To Rosa
September 8, 2009 by lastgunslinger
She taught her daughter never to accept anything from strangers. The concept of strangers, she said, was the offspring of the broad concept strange. Sparkling, glistening and strange.
She guarded the heritage that flowed as blood through her veins as though she would lose whatever was in store with one miscalculated step. She hated everything that remotely deviated from what was socially accepted as proper. She wore a one-winged emblem quite like a weapon, always on the offensive, hand always raised.
Her daughter had two names: one of the immaculate, the other of the wicked. The love she had for her daughter, no matter how misconstrued, was love still. In her eyes, after all, her daughter never glistened. Truth be told, with every slap she threw, she got hurt double.
She walked quite like how someone with a purpose walked. She never looked back but she never forgot. During times when a storm with its fraternity of lights and sounds would visit their town, she would urgently run out to the garden to look for her daughter. She would look at her with love in her eyes and utter words of penance before saying, “I love you. My Maria, my reality.”
A few feet away, golden butterflies glistened as they made their way to change what was real and what was not forever.
