"Why do you grow flowers," the child asked the inmate on visiting day.
"What honey," the old, rugged, muscled, black, grayed, dark-eyed, inmate asked?
"My daddy told me you are the gardener, and you grow pretty flowers," she smiled and looked at her father who sat across from her. The lifer raised a tear in his eye, his lips begin to shake. He vividly saw every color he ever created in the prison yard the past 25 years: pale blue hues of hydrangea, deep blues of iris, pink caelia in full bloom, the dignity of red, orange, purple, and white.
"Why are you crying," the gorgeous child asked?
"Because I didn't think anyone noticed honey."
© September 30, 2012 Brokali Resident