In her weathered, leathery hands she holds a photograph; it’s wrinkled, dog-eared, and loved. Dark hair hangs loose from her bun, falling wildly around her face, but beneath it she is beaming.
The girl sitting beside her is no older than seventeen. She’s wearing nonfunctional strappy shoes, freshly manicured nails and an attitude that says she couldn't possibly care less about anything or anyone. She's chewing gum and staring out the greasy window-- anything to avoid eye contact. She's trying to appear confident and mature, but she's insecure and scared and everyone knows it. The daily commuters can smell her vulnerability.
Flora rocks back and forth in her seat, clutching the photograph so tightly that her fingertips turn white. Finally, she turns to the girl and boldly holds out the photo exclaiming-- nearly screaming-- "This is my granddaughter! She was born last week! I'm going to see her!".
The girl looks uncomfortable for a moment, her face filled with hesitation and dread. With wide eyes, she scans the bus to make sure nobody is watching before she takes the photograph. Holding it up to the sunlight, she stares at it for a moment. All she sees is a wrinkled and hairless lump, wrapped in a yellow blanket.
Their eyes meet and Flora's are welled with tears. She is so filled with life and hope that she is shaking and grinning.
The girl looks at the photograph once more, and with a sincere and childishly innocent smile says
"She's beautiful".
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