Isabella Pan (9) | STAFF REPORTER
I started planting flowers,
fields and fields of them.
Its colours ever so vibrant,
its fragrance more aromatic than expensive perfume.
Like a blanket it covered the earth,
its soil dormant under.
My back ached, arms hurt,
skin turned shades of maple syrup.
However, I still smiled
on day one,
day ten,
day one hundred.
Suddenly an epiphany hit me,
struck me like autumn did to summer.
It robbed me of my smile and my last ounce of strength.
My flowers will die by november,
turn into bits of crinkled paper.
I have but weeks to fulfill this dream,
an impossible mission.
My back already hunched,
Arms too frail to even wave.
An internal war begins:
“You can do this, just persevere.” one voice says.
“Wishful thinking gets you nowhere.” another voice exclaims.
The enemy wins, of course.
I start to walk away, slowly, stumbling,
having aged at the speed of light.
