the flowers are dead now

the flowers died on monday. it was any other ordinary day, my mother went to the grocery store my father went to work we children went to school coming back home filled with tales of our adventures dancing on our lips but in the solemn house on the end of the picket-fence road, a pane shattered goes untouched small chips breaking in my eyes and i watch with a question burning on my tongue, but hold silent for fear of my mothers sharp tone cutting through my heart i watched the petals fall, one by one days turned into weeks since the flashing lights came and the glass broke fluttering like the wings of hyacinths going down and down and down until i sat at the bottom watching them float away the last remaining part of the roots climbing out of the soil grasping the sun and going somewhere new, someplace i could not follow. the flowers died on monday.