Being
He found her in the garden, lying flat on her back among the long stems of the daisies, face to the sun, eyes closed. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Shhhh." He sat down next to her and looked at her face, so serene, unlined. She still hadn't moved. The freckles across her nose would deepen with the sun and her cheeks would turn rosy soon, if she didn't leave the sun. "What are you doing?" he whispered. "Being." "Being?" "Yes. I'm being. Sometimes I feel like I'm just not anything. And today...this sun? It reminds me that I'm something . So I'm being. Come on, just try it." He expected her to open one eye, or maybe both eyes, and he'd see the mirth that lay inside. But she didn't bother to look at him. So he glanced around the garden. The wind ruffled the leaves of the Japanese maple tree to his left and an orange butterfly danced across the phlox. Aside from that insect, though...