Maryn. I am Maryn, and I wear a dress made of flowers. Real flowers so far as I can tell, but nothing has felt very real for quite some time. But never mind that. I choose the prettiest flowers on my Island, and I stitch the blooms into the kind of dress I want to wear.
When the flowers wilt, I am already dreaming of another dress I can create on this paradise. This is my life. Built from scratch. Every last piece of it.
Today, my dress is crafted with azaleas, all different shades. It wraps close against my skin and the flowery fabric skims the top of my bare feet.
The clouds overhead cast dark shadows on my dress, but I am determined to finish scavenging for tomorrow’s garment.
As I rummage through the tall grass for wildflowers, I think about Young Maryn. Young Maryn is who I used to be. She walks around like a reverie and invites herself along when I’d rather not have her for company at all. Her innocent, energetic words plague me, and I pull at the grass with frustration . . .