Back and forward, back and forward.
I'm out at night with my sister, a few years older than me. From a safe distance, we're watching a familiar scene from the thirties: a solitary tree in a field, a bunch of white lilies stand below, silently gazing up as the tree keeps its own slow, rhythmic beat. The branch creaks in perfect time.
Back and forward.
My sister touches my arm. "Watch, Ellen," she whispers in my ear. "Watch the lilies."
"Aren't lilies supposed to be beautiful?" I ask her.