I didn't know you well enough. Not nearly.
It's an act of transfiguration. Maybe that sounds too "spiritual" for someone like her. Call it sublimation, then. Solid to vapor. To the naked eye, impossible.
Here in the dark, though, it's the liquid state. Unseen. Sleight of hand; every moment of it an apology. It falls, and it flows, and it changes, becomes fierce, defiant.
They'll get her back. But Bo's gone cold, and Dyson stares blankly at walls when he thinks he's alone, and Tamsin--
--Lauren doesn't know her well enough, either, but she thinks Tamsin is more alone than any of them right now. There are just some experiences she doesn't share, even with Dyson, even though Kenzi was her mother in this life. And Lauren can see it on Tamsin's face; she knows it.
Someone needs to mourn. For all of them.
Call it rebellion after her time in Afghanistan. Retaliation. Her way of screaming. Some way of honoring the dead without bloodshed; none of the real warriors Lauren's ever known would want blood shed in their names. Not if they gave up their lives willingly. And that's exactly what Kenzi was. What she's always been.
There's a picture of a flower growing out of the barrel of a gun, burning in her memory; in college, listening to her brother's stories of revolution and guerrilla warfare, she used to think it was a starry-eyed dream of privileged lib arts majors utterly unaware of nature--the nature of politics, humanity, the Earth itself. But now, it's all she can think about.
There are a thousand reasons to do this: it's stupid, frivolous, immature. A dozen things Lauren accused her of being. Lauren feels stupid; she used to be so much more extreme than this. Saying it feels wild makes her feel old, like somewhere in the haze of Fae politics and destiny she's lost her edge, her fire. But it does; it feels wild and pure and right. She can't say that about much, lately.
The sun comes up, and a hundreds of sunflowers turn their heads to stare, brilliant and inexplicable. No one knows where they came from, or how they got there overnight; who planted them there without leaving so much as a stray speck of dirt, or whether they just sprang up. They crowd gaps in sidewalks, cluster around the roots of trees struggling to grow in tiny square plots drowning in smog. Edge in around cemeteries. Invade neat lawns and sidewalk plots. There's no pattern to it. Just a riot of yellow, drawing stares and smiles.
Maybe it's not the wildest prank. But Kenzi would've loved it. And probably Hale, too. Somewhere, Lauren knows, they can see it. A flare in the dark.