Everything is tranquil outside; everything is still. This is normal for Jarvis Street, which is infested with mind-numbing, elderly people. Sweltering heat stares down the dry flowers. Plants surrender to the warm temperature and whither in defeat. Lying down on the hardwood floor of my room, my sweat trickles down my forehead. Even Hell can’t be as hot as this.
I stare dully at the pale indigo wall, not wanting to move. My sister, Jackie, walks into the room. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail and strands of hair stick out. Janelle’s eyes are vacant, crinkled from her smile. And her smile was strange, almost sinister-looking
“Oreo is dead,” she states. Laughter is rolling off her tongue, making what she said hard to believe. She doubles over and giggles like an evil little schoolgirl.
“Lair,” I declare. However, I glance up in pure anxiety.
“Go see for yourself,” Jackie exclaims between hysterical snickers.
I get up just to prove that she is wrong. Opening the door, a wave of white-hot heat slams into me. In the middle of the street, a jeep is parked. Scarlet liquid dribbles down the asphalt road. A black and white dog thrashes around, her fur matted. Her delicate little head is bleeding continually. Her frail legs kick at the air hopelessly. A woman hugs my mom, crying hysterically. The mother of Oreo toddles slowly to her child, and sniffs at the strange liquid. A howl rips through her throat, painfully and sorrowfully. The body stops twitching and lies on the cold, rigid street.

Grief rakes my chest and tears burn my eyes raw. Broken sobs cleave my lungs and I dart inside the house. Whimpers bubble up in my stomach, and everything turns dreary, cold. Janelle’s laughter hammers my ears. Blubbering, I throw myself to the floor, and lie there defeated. I shed tears until my eyes are puffy and half closed. My heart drops down… down…down. The corners of my mouth twitch downwards as a new waterfall cascades over my cheeks. The scene of the car and my beloved child hacks at my heart, like a dull axe.

Suddenly, my dad lifts me up and guides me to the sliver van. He tells me that we are going to bury her in our old house, were she was raised. I glance at the cherry river flowing to the gutter.

The rich, lush soil pours over my child. One by one, everyone throws down a radiant, tickle-me-pink tulip. I stare at the flower clutched in my hand. The flesh of the petals glows like a shy flame. The delicate leafs are entrenched with lacy spider webs. Pale emerald stems poke out of the earth, where she lies. I hold onto it tighter, not wanting to let go.

“Jocelyn, you have to let the flower go,” says my mother whispers softly. Slowly, the flower slips away. Tumbling through heavens, it lands on the dirt with a soft thud, kind of like an angel’s sigh. The flower’s color looks so intense, brilliant against the dirt. “Jocelyn…you just have to let go.”