Jacarandas at Sunset

Small things become infused with meaning: jacarandas are a time for endings. I had plucked the blossoms, wove them into my graduation wings, and I had crossed the stage in a white silk skirt stained with pomegranate juice, a black leather corset bearing a pentacle, an imitation of the selkie skin I had lost before I had memory, and wings of steel and shells and circuit boards; feathers, flowers, heat sinks; wire, leather and a state park boundary sign. Tomorrow the girl I kissed that day will herself be graduating. The jacarandas are blooming. Perhaps I will pluck one, give it to her, ask her to weave it into the wings she is not wearing.

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