She looks up, and sees the trees. She sees the gleams of light fighting their way through the swaying leaves, the crisp, blue sky, and a world that belongs to her. The soft warmth of the sun caresses the supple youth of her guiltless face, calm winds brushing her hair in front of her eager eyes. She spits the stray strand back into place with one swift, yet relaxed, blow. Spots of light dance before her, escaping through the trembling leaves above. Her white cotton dress lies lightly atop crossed legs, occasionally blowing with the direction of the gentle breeze. She sits on the velvety grass, elbows pressed against her knees, eyes intently devouring the narrative before her. The Velveteen Rabbit; a book her grandmother passed onto her. She pictures herself as Mr. Velveteen Rabbit herself, unkempt and ragged; detestable compared to all the other admirable, cherished toys. She presses her small thumb firmly against the edge of pages to keep the wind from turning her current daydream to the other page. Her wide, glossy eyes frequently shift from her book to the world around her. She takes it all in. She closes her eyes and inhales the placid scent of the dewy earth, the rich warmth of the sun against her skin, the sound of the whistling leaves passing her delicate ears. Word after word, her already boundless imagination expands wider, and wider, and wider. The scenes she reads encircle her, lingering above her head. Her eyes aglow with a burning incandescent desire for more.
In the distance, she hears her mother’s raucous voice, calling her in for dinner. Gazing back at the sky she takes one last intake of the nature around her, drawing in all she can of the world she’ll have to wait until tomorrow to bask in again. She get up, straightens her white, wrinkled dress, and sprints off into the direction of her mother’s vociferous call, clutching the book tightly against her chest, her thin, brown, hair flowing behind her.