"Those? Those are weeds."

"What?"

"Yeah, those are weeds. My neighbors are always getting rid of them and throwing them out, but I thought they were so pretty. Now they just give them to me."

The first time I come to her house, her garden is green. There are bunches of small, white flowers and grass and vines growing over the wooden fences.

It smells of fresh grass.

There are patches of overgrown plants here and there, with occasional flowers decorating the stems.

"You're really weird."

She laughs. I imagine that if I could hear the twinkling of stars,  it'd be that.

"But they're pretty, aren't they?"

There's a breeze that only comes with the warm light of the sun and the ambiguity of summer. The weed by my foot grazes the tip of my shoe.

"I guess so."