enLightened

enLightened Sara Nolan

Ineed the light.

Dad claims that I am neither a desert cactus nor a cold-blooded reptile, and yet I bask. Bask in the gleaming heat, delivering luscious sweat for the tired grass beneath my soles. The twisting curls on my scalp cradle my temples until spheres appear.

I crave the light.

I crave it more than the sweet basil rooted amid the peach-painted pot. My teacher said I had chosen a superb color for the pot. A new home for two lonesome seeds. They made their habitat among the fractured wishbone, upon the upper kitchen window. Over time, the seeds flourished with poise into my budding buddies, straining their necks to grasp a subtle glow from a hovering amber orb.

The basil’s swelling aroma coats each morning breath, licking my memory of floured dough and spiced tomato sauce. Oh, how lucky that basil plant is to flourish and lounge with the sun.

Mom says that if I remain in the presence of the sun too long, it will burn me to a crisp. I don’t mind. I like my toast nice and crisp, tanned with bronzed undertones, with strawberry and blueberry jelly smushed together.

My brother says this combination is gross. Well, I don’t like his smelly egg sandwiches. I do like the light, though. I can’t hug the light. But that’s okay. Maybe I’ll find a way. Flash Fiction

23