On Orchid Hill

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dva: hyacint

๐‘ก๐‘ค๐‘œ: โ„Ž๐‘ฆ๐‘Ž๐‘๐‘–๐‘›๐‘กโ„Ž

Gerbera is a sickly child. She spends most of her earlier days in bed, towels pressed to her sweaty forehead. Fever after fever after sickness after sickness. Hair as brown as branches, knotted and clustered. Some days, she wishes that she had not been born at all. She cannot go out and play for hours on end, as her older sister can. She cannot stick the ripe apples into her pockets, devilishly smiling all the while. Gerbera dreams of being carried away by the wind, drifting on clouds as sweet as a honeyed dream.

On days like that, she paints. At first, it's only paper and pencil. Sketches of her mother, of her father, and on the occasion that she can get her to sit still, Chrysanthemum. Then, magically, she is gifted paint. Watercolor, an expensive thing called acyclic. Colored pencils. Her world bursts with life and light easiness. In her paintings, she is free, happy, alive.

(Her best subject though, is always Chrysanthemum. Her older sister is a vision, practically bursting at the seams. Bright, bubbly, so so energetic. Gerbera wants nothing more than to, maybe if she were-)

There are a few days, far in between, when the weather is just right for Gerbera to step outside. When those days come to fruition, Chrysanthemum is by her side, strolling with her through the fields. They pluck at the wildflowers, deftly weaving them together to make crowns worthy for the queens in her storybooks.

Chrysanthemum introduces her to the Grass Game. One sister is to sit at the bottom of the hill, back facing the house. The other sister starts at the porch, trying her hardest to catch her sister without being caught. Being caught means starting over, taking the lonely walk back to the starting point.

Gerbera loves the feeling of the grass brushing up against her legs, loves the way the wind tickles the back of her neck, the way Chrysanthemum pouts, hurt at being caught.

Gerbera likes being the chaser too, sometimes. As the sun shines on them from up above, her sister will (more often than not) pull her down into the grass by her side, erupting into a silly pile of giggles, of girls drunk on the happiness of childhood.

From the front of the house, their parents stand, watching with silly little smiles of their own.

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