May 8, 2017

In the concrete city of Pastel, the pavement sweeper’s daughter, Eonia, was often observed standing on the pebbled slab nearest the small square of dirt and tugging on one of the auburn ringlets hanging below her left ear, a sure sign that she was deep in thought.

‘Eonia! Come mix the brick paste,’ called her mother.

Eonia did not move. Had she heard?

‘Leave her be,’ said Eonia’s father. ‘She’s thinking deep like as she does. She’s inventing a garden in her head, as ever and always like she does, you know.’

Eonia’s mother sighed and said, ‘It’s all well and good to think thoughts, but how is that going to repair the back wall is what I’d like to know.’

‘Orange on the way to scarlet,’ Eonia mumbled. For her, you see, in that moment, the square of dirt before her was the single place existing in the universe. Such was the fierceness of her composed concentration that what happened next was instantly and, I might add, universally accepted with celebratory awe by all in the concrete city of Pastel.

The orange on the way to scarlet flower remained fully in bloom forever there in its square of dirt.

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