She’d braided daisies into her hair with the skilled fingers of a seamstress.
“How old?” I’d gasped.
“Where did she learn?”
“Not from us. One day, she just wandered into the meadow behind our house and started picking flowers. We watched from the garden gate with smiles from ear to ear. She left us dumbstruck when she began weaving them into her hair.”
Colleen placed her cup back on its saucer as the little girl laughed and danced and sang her chirping songs.
“Well, I’m staggered,” I said. And I was.
“Everyone says the same. She’s a very talented child.”
“You must be very proud,” I commented.
“Oh, we are. The best thing that ever happened to us was planting her.”
“Planting! I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“She still sleeps in the same pot,” Colleen continued as though in a dream. “We fear for her every frost.”
I don’t know what it was about the little girl but whenever the weather grew cold, I feared for her. The sun never seemed warm enough after that.