By Sarah Brentyn
I heard a soft voice, too quiet for real conversation, before I felt the hand on my hair. “It’s time,” my sister whispered.
“No,” I stumbled forward and pointed. “I don’t want those here. They smell bad.”
“They don’t smell. It’s just baby’s breath…” She pulled her hand back quickly.
I ran to the wreath.
I ripped the spray of white flowers out of their tiny, green heart and flung the shredded pieces. My knuckles scraped the hard, floral foam and I bled. Someone screamed. Arms wrapped around me. I flailed.
Baby’s breath. It’s just baby’s breath. No more.