A delicate petal from the mystical Hawthorn tree flutters down with the gentleness of a butterfly and brushes her face, then falls to the ground, damp with her tears.
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
“Nothing is wrong, Dearest,” Grace assures her daughter. “These are tears of joy. Soon, everything will be right. But there will be some changes that may startle you or confuse you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’ll soon be a young woman and that is why I must tell you now, before the changes occur.”
Always tall and willowy, Grace will soon lose height and gain width. Her skin will line and crease, and spots from years in the sunlight will form patterns on her delicate hands. The female body betrays you, she grieves silently. It deteriorates into unwelcome mosaics of decay, becomes something to be hidd
