White Flowers

Seia waits on the porch with a blanket and a mug of cold tea. He still isn’t home, and the waiting gets worse. It starts to hurt. 

Her mother calls her inside, and tucks her in bed, and tells her a story. She doesn’t cry, but it looks like she might.

Seia can’t sleep. She listens to the crickets outside and traces paths in the dust of the windowsill. The front door creaks. 

He’s back with a fistful of white flowers to put above the fireplace. He had to cut through thorn bushes to get them.

Sunrise. He’s gone again.