Window Box

I have a tendency to get lost in my head, my own narrator, waxing lyrical about the smallest of moments -- the pretty girl in Spanish, the boy who said he likes my hair.

I always forget the tulips until I pass by them, the ones my mother planted beneath her window. The make the shining sun look almost washed out compared to their thick buttery yellow, the same shade as the cake she used to make for my birthdays.

The tulips make me smile, every time. And every time, for a moment, I hold the memory close, as if it were a precious jewel, or an egg kept warm by my heart.

I just want it to stay.

I don't remember what the cake tasted like.

At night, I tumble asleep, uneasy. I never remember my dreams.