Furious, I sat on the steps to my house staring at mom's blooming marigold flowers. She tended to them with a gentle touch, talking to them gently, talking about them gently, lovingly, with all care. She would turn to me and speak in a tone that would make a marigold lose its petals.
I wondered if my hatered of yellow was because of these flowers.
A sudden urge came to me to beat them all down dead and stomp on them until they couldn't possibly be revived like they can after a storm. I imagined my mother's horror when she would see the destruction.
She would deserve that.
But the flowers didn't.
I do not hurt innocents.
It maybe the way my mother rolls, but it isn't me.
About the Creator
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