They sit peacefully, swaying in the wind. I am the one who grabs a handful. Six pretty petals with beads of dew like tears. Six yellow sunbursts. Six curled smiles sprouting from a dark brown candy center. I hear them giggle, but if you don’t appreciate them, you will hear nothing.

Their strength is delicate. Their roots are threads beneath the ground. They don’t show themselves at first. They are hidden in green stems until the last moment. Then one morning when you least expect it, you wake up to a smile of color.

Little girls put all their trust in petals. When a glass full of daisies sits in tap water, the little girls ask them personal questions. Does he love me? Love me not? Love me? Love me not? They listen.

When I am too exhausted and jaded to call him back, when I am curled in bed with a rock in my throat, then I look at the petals. When there are no other faces to look at in my home. Six who listen to my question. Six who don’t care if I’m a little girl again. Six who give me the answer I’ve been looking for.