Under the oak tree, she danced with the wind.

Eight years had passed and Jennie had changed. Her values, her memories, her thoughts and her way of looking at things were all different now. She was no longer the seven-year-old kid, crying outside a strange shop chatting with old men about her troubles and flowers. No, in the short amount of time, she had grown up.

Shortly after receiving the bunch of Cypress, she had once again opted to ignore the old man. He had chuckled at her and continued on talking about flowers of all kinds. Jennie had secretly been listening and learning. She always had loved flowers.

Her mother had found her then. A good twenty minutes later, on the verge of hysteria and this time with ugly tears rolling down her face. She had raced towards Jennie and gathered her into her arms again. Trembling and with a hoarse voice she had thanked the old man, who had looked quite alarmed and they were off. The ride home in her mother’s car had been silent with the occasional sniffle her mother let out. When they reached home, Jennie had swiftly and quietly made her way straight to her room with no other intention but to sleep. She had changed into her pyjamas and snuggled under the covers. Her brain was still trying to process today’s event. While Jennie was a smart child; grasping things quicker than the average child, she had always had trouble understanding emotions and what they went. With a heavy heart and a weary mind, she had slowly drifted to sleep.

However, only a few minutes she had been awoken again. Her mother had her hand clutched in between hers. Jennie had remained stiff and still, her eyes closed and her heart hammering away at her chest. She had tried to remember the last time one of her parents had come to her room. The last time they had given her a goodnight kiss, the last time they had read her a bedtime story and the last time they had tucked her in. She found in that moment, she couldn’t remember at all. Nevertheless, she had taken it in stride and listened as her mother apologized over and over again. She had listened as her mother berated herself for not showing Jennie affection, and not giving her enough care. She had listened and she had taken everything in. She had understood and she had forgiven both her parents. She had felt her mother’s love then. She had felt it when her mother caressed her hair. She had felt it when she heard her mother’s promises. She had felt it when her mother had softly kissed her forehead and whispered a soft ‘I love you’.

She remembers the next morning when she had woken up,her father was in the room. She remembers him crouching, remembers him presenting a single dandelion. She had wondered then, of all the flowers , why had he picked a shabby looking dandelion? She remembers him telling her of how it represented happiness, and he wished nothing but happiness for her. She remembers herself holding the dandelion. Her mind is still imprinted with the feeling of crushed dandelion. Imprinted with the image of her father’s face tinged with betrayal and a rising sadness. Her mind had memorised the steps he had to take until he was out of her bedroom door and out of her life.

Her mother had looked at her, then at the crushed dandelions. In no time Jennie was in her mother’s arms again and it was a long time before either of them had let go.

The rest, as they say, is history. She had slept the rest of the day away and when she awoke she had started to refer to her mother as mom again.

The rest of the years had flown by and Jenn