She grew soft flowers, back when her hands were small, with narrow stems and crisp scalloped petals. She grew them without dirt or water, holding them so carefully it was as if she was feeding them air. She found in them beauty, she found in them hope, as much as all the quiet things she most wanted to be. But no one told her and she learned quickly what no one would say. As the years went by the stems grew meek and the once bright petals began to steadily fade. She knew no better, no other, way. It came like a blow to her gut when she was finally forced to say her flowers were paper. Not meant to last. Not meant to stay. Not meant to be anything but a momentary breeze. They did not tell her beauty is destined to pass. They wouldn't say not everyone is wise enough to take the hope they're given and run. She decided then what she would not be. Not flowers of tissue with pipe cleaner leaves but something far distant from these false house plants. She would seize hope and with it she'd run, until she grew branches and roots meant to be torn loose. Be they paper or petals, she could no longer grow flowers, but at least, what she discovered in her now tumbleweed garden is that at least you can see a tumbleweed take to the breeze before its last breath of shame and regret. After all sometimes hope for a future beyond, is all you get.