memories of the flowers

I use to know this little girl who loves talking to the flowers. What she talks about? Hurm what she use to talk about?Heeee I can't remember! But safe to guess just about everything. Just sitting there hours(might have been shorter.Who keeps time when you don't even know how to tell one) long talking to the flowers. The flowers in return; patiently and tentatively (assuming here since the flowers got no other choice) listening to this little girl. Not a word uttered to ask her to be quite. Not a turn of head to dismiss this sometimes silly annoying little girl. She cracks up laughing or frowns as if the world troubles sit on her shoulder or just sits there staring at them. The flowers go "haaaaaah!finally she shuts up!What with that psychotic look?err she not planning to pluck us!!!" But she never did and never will in the coming years. Not even after she stopped talking to them, she just never forgot what they meant to her. They are a part of her childhood that's precious like diamonds are to some.

Her secret. Her little escapade. Her trust.

Those memories created one of the small romantic streaks in the her that is in danger of being lost as she grows older and each time her trust is broken. Weighting the possibilities losing them with her growing apprehension on relationships and people. Killing of the novelty she grew up with that just like the flowers in her childhood everyone is pure(not much help from the books planting seeds of blissful ignorance of the truth sometimes staring at her).

Yet even till now, I look at them, willing myself to talk, to share my stories just like from my childhood. But, things have changed. I'm not the unsullied little girl that holds the memories of the flowers anymore. I miss them, Yes I do(err that doesn't mean you'll soon find me talking to flowers at the roadside anytime soon). Those moments of absolute trust when I know they wouldn't snub me; wouldn't judge me; wouldn't hurt me.