To The World, I Say This...

A girl is reading a book in a park.

A gravel path winds away among the grass and leafy trees. The vivid greenery is blown gently by the spring breeze, warmed by the sun. The girl sits on a wooden park bench, worn from weather and use. The wise oak growing behind the bench half-shields her from the sun and creaks soft messages to her in the breeze.

Her wild brown hair is tied in a loose braid, coming around her neck to her chest and ending in a bright blue tie. Soft freckles adorning young cheeks. Her face is peaceful as she pensively and peacefully reads her selection. Her small shoes sit to her right and her soft feet, crossed as the ankles, enjoy the cool grass below the bench. The perfume of previous rain still hangs in the air, stirred in the breeze.

The books she reads sits in her hands on her lap. Every so often an absent-minded finger strokes the hard, worn red cover. The read canvas covering the book have seen a hundred too many days. Worn corners expose the material underneath the seasoned canvas. The more she reads, the more the scent of old paper mingles with soft rain and warm spring.

The text, though old, still boldly jumps from each page she turns. Chapters read without picture or pause. She is halfway through the book, but already knows the ending. The book is well-known to her, an old friend. Every page and blemish is familiar to her.

As she reads, several pages previous are disturbed by a slight movement. This is shortly followed by a small ivy leaf peaking out from between the pages. The girl takes momentary notice but doesn't react. She continues to read, turning another delicate page. The leaf grows gradually, deep green surrounded with a ribbon of white. Soon, it is joined by another smaller leaf. The vine of ivy grows beyond the borders of the book and onto the girl's lap. A pair of similar appendages grow beyond the pages she has yet to read and onto her arm, reaching to the ground. The breeze catches the slowly opening leaves and caresses the dangling greenery. Some of the larger leaves creep into the girl's reading field and she breaks from her activity to stroke one of these. As if in response, the growth of the ivy increases slightly. Its frontiers begin to mingle with the grass. The book's pages are spread like many wings as more ivy grows from the very core of it.

The girl and the old oak watch wordlessly without surprise. She leans back and relaxes onto the bench as the leaves untie her hair and tangle in the generous locks. As she before stroked the leaves, so the leaves brushed against her chin and cheeks. Her breathing becomes shallow and her eyes slowly close, as if to sleep. Her grip on the book relaxes. Ivy crowns her head, contrasted darkly with her whitening face. The leaves tremble with her slowing heartbeat. The tendrils make their way around her arms and the boards of the bench.

The ivy's growth ceases as she silently breathesher last.