A Tugged Pigtail Hides a Girl’s Racing Heart

The summer I was five, the air was always heavy with a lazy sweetness, like the scent of ripe wisteria melting in the sun. The old parasol tree in the courtyard spread its vast canopy, sifting down wavering flecks of gold across the ground. I crouched beside its roots, my little hands gathering the pale purple flowers scattered on the ground, trying to piece them back together into a whole blossom like the ones on the tree. Their fuzzy bases brushed my palms and tickled a little.