the first draft day one

The first thing she remembers is reaching for the bright orange rose, swaying there in the summer sun, sees her fingers brown, nails broken and dirty, feels the pulling stretch of her arm and the green leaves dancing underneath. She can feel the grit of the sand between her toes, looking down she sees the cracked red polish that rims her big toe and the scar on her foot from the bicycle she crashed that spring. Desperate to have the rose she tries but falls short, she is only seven after all, she grabs instead the tough sharp spikes of thorns that circle the stem and pulls back quickly,not fast enough to stop the blood from dropping, dripping on the ground, splashing the dirt with deep red spots. The finger is stinging, it is bleeding, she sucks on it to stop it, so mother does not see. The rose still sways, it's scent coming to her through the humid August air, heavy with nectar and musky sweetness. Through watering eyes she looks around, waiting for a call, waiting for her name but there is nothing. A scarlet ant, alone, crawls over her foot, then down to the red spot in the dirt. She takes her finger from her mouth, forgets the stab of the thorn, forgets the rose and watches the ant. Crouching down, she observes it's fillament thin antenna, it's pincher mouth. The ant picks at her blood in the sand, takes a small grain that is red as itself,takes it away. She holds out her finger, a droplet of blood slowly forming and lets it drop on the ant. The ant stumbles a bit, drops the grain of bloody sand, then takes it again and ambles on. She smiles now, she is the sister to the ant, the mother perhaps. Standing, she gathers her skirt, smearing a tiny drop of red from her finger on the taffeta and skips down the driveway. This memory evaded her for many years only to resurface when she lost her first born, lost her in a sea of bloody sheets and tears. It gave her hope, feed her faith that her blood would bring life, kept her from taking her own life in resignation and sorrow.