She dresses for the weather.
The canopy of clouds only depicts immaturity. She is sure – it is a lonely picture if she were to frame the world outside.
As she opens the door from the darkness of her room, the mood settles. She remembers her mother pinning clothes fresh from washing.
A curve slowly forms on her lips. She smiles, answering mother’s idyllic glance.
The breeze is the dampness of cloth.
She hears their pet cat purr; grandfather waters the plants as she watches by the window; butterflies flutter as it showers; birds chirp early in the morning.
Mother calls her, mentions her name like a sweet and funny song.
She is a girl who likes to run whenever someone calls. She never runs away.
Before she even gets close to where the voice comes from, their pet dog fawns.
“What’s your name?” A girl with a red umbrella asks and pats the neighborhood dog on stroll.
. . .
In the distance, she does not move for moments.
It begins to drizzle.
She sees herself dressed for the weather.