The White Dress

There once was a girl in a white dress.

The dress is trimmed in lace, it has ruffled sleeves. When she twirls, it furls around her, a pearly parachute. She can float, she can dance, she is an angel, she is a princess.

Her small brown feet trip lightly through the meadow. She scatters dandelion petals in one breath. She plays hide-and-go-seek with the oak tree. The air sparkles like chilled champagne. She is young and carefree. She is beautiful.

But then, one afternoon when the sun is full and hot, she slips. Mud splatters dark stains against the white. The lace rips, shredding the dress into a gossamer cobweb. Her hair comes undone, curls slip onto her neck.
The tears fall then-- smooth, in long streams down her freckled cheeks. She sits in the pile of mud, bewildered and afraid.

Then, she stands up. She stands up tall. She steps away from the mud, dark as pain, and into the shade of the oak tree.

The rain starts. It starts with a rumble of thunder, a groan against the gray sky. It starts with a few droplets speckling the grass.
And then it pours. The torrent of water sends shivers of streams running over the meadow. The tree bends and bows regally in the gust.

She steps out in the rain, under the water. It soaks her. Her skin glistens. Her dress hangs off her small frame, delicate and cream.

The rain washes away all the mud.

And she raises her hands, and she dances in her white dress.