The Garden of Eden

She had this look on her face. I had tried for hours to convince her to open her mouth and let go of the shock that remained paled in her skin, “Allahna, what is it that you saw? What scared you in the garden?” Yet again her dark brown eyes met mine. Something was different; they glimmered now where they never had before.

 
A back and forth pitter-patter of trying to get her to speak, with no response, I took it upon myself to drag her back to the garden. She stood at its entrance. No hesitation; no shaking in her boots. She opened her hand and appeared to have her eyes closed. In that exact moment, a flower was plucked from the foliage grasping the trellis entrance, and was placed into her hand. No one had touched it, and she hadn’t done it; it appeared the wind had grasped it tight and laid it in her hand.

 
She opened her eyes when she felt the petals plop on her skin. She stared at it, in awe of its bright pink hue. Yet she still was just as pale as before. I knelt at her side, “Allahna, what scared you in the garden?” She looked back at me with once again, glimmered eyes. She clutched the flower in her hand, and finally spoke, “The placement of the flower or garden doesn’t scare me.. Its who handed me the flower that frightens me.” She gives it a will? A person of substance? Yet all I saw was a flower floating to her hand.

 
“Allahna, who handed you this flower?” She smiled, and then lost her train of thought and paled again. She let go of the flower, “Eden. Eden handed it to me.”

 
The pink petals hit the ground before her last word came out; the muddled petal colors now reflected how this instance felt. This was Edens garden.

 

 

 

 

(Would like to say that this is just a play on “The Garden of Eden”, and was not written in a religious way. But read at your own leisure)

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