It seemed as though the air itself was alive— whirling, dancing, fluttering about. The boy's mother sat and watched him from a distance, her feet neatly crossed and her head thrown back in laughter.
It was no easy task to catch a falling blossom. Patience, anticipation, and swiftness was required; all of which the five year old Kai had yet to learn. He would continuously lunge at every petal, squeezing his eyes shut and clapping his hands together, as if praying that when he'd open them, a blossom would be there in his palm.
But the delicate blossoms were appalled by his artlessness, and one by one they would fly out of reach.
"Kai," his mother said gently. She placed both hands onto her lap, before unfolding them like the sides of a novel.
"Be still," she whispered. Kai mirrored her actions, raising his hands towards the sky. And surely enough, he felt the blossoms melt into his palm one by one.
It was that summer morning, when the boy learned the virtue of stillness in a world of unforgiving motion.
YOU ARE READING
2021 Writing
General FictionI've challenged myself to try and write (not every single day because I have miserably failed T_T) consistently in 2021. Hope to cultivate my craft as a writer! c :
