The Rosebush
A familiar glint caught Sawyer’s eye. There it was, peeking out from underneath the trampled, rotting rose bushes. The heart-shaped locket that belonged to her mother. “Oh thank goodness!!” she exclaimed, and gingerly picked up the necklace. In it was a faded picture of a much younger Sawyer sitting in her mother’s lap, laughing, face turned up to the sun, hands covered in sticky ribbons of melted strawberry ice cream as Rufus, their family dog, sat by their feet, tongue out in anticipation of catching a dribble of a sweet treat. Sawyer sighed.
