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,
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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.