They are the only ones who wait for me. I am the only one who misses them. Three sleepy flowers with drooping heads and dead eyes like mine. Three who slept all winter but have awoken. Three colors wakened by warming weather. From the kitchen, I watch them, and mother says she understands, but she really doesn’t.
Their timing is immaculate. They fall asleep when I need them most. They wake when the time comes--scratches are red and I am pale as death and their unsurprised faces greet mine with irony. This is why they wait.
Let one loose hope, they would not miss me like I would miss them, and their faces would still smile. Sleep, sleep, sleep they whisper when I struggle. They tempt.
When I am too furious and too tired to stay awake, when the sun is too far away and the air too cold, I wait for the flowers. When the whole world is colorless. Three who sleep despite bitter winter. Three who grow and do not forget to remind. Three whose only reason is to sleep and wake.