I was just a little girl, sitting on the top of a canal, when I realized beautiful things really could grow where you wouldn’t expect. A person wouldn’t expect what should be an ugly, twisted, grotesque weed to be the core of a welcoming Burning Bush.
Never has water seemed so clear and quenching, even when you aren’t even thirsty. Never has sand (even though spilling over with ugly zebra muscles) seemed so silky, and warm, perfect for a child to run their toes under. And never has rusting, once glimmering, grimy corrugated metal appeared to be so comfortable, with that small patch of kelly green grass to lye your head on. But I was under this impression only because as I stretched my young body across this charming canal, I took notice of that lovely Burning Bush, just a fingers length out of reach. It was a fearless, daring Burning Bush that was hosting a weed at its heart. An elegant, chic, thorny weed that was blossoming with dazzling, little white flowers. But she was causing a sure death for the Burning Bush, choking from the inside out.
Moments passed as I stared at what was in front of me before I rolled over and carefully plucked one of those petite flowers, and a handsome leaf from the bush. I pressed both to my lips and made a wish while I rolled back onto my front. Then, after crawling on my belly in a way only a child could to the edge of the canal, I tipped myself over the edge, but only as far as gravity would allow without falling over. I gently placed my blossom upside down on my burning red leaf and dropped them over the side. I dropped them with the purpose of them floating to the other side into the open lake, where nothing but nature could determine where they, and my wish, would finally stop.