Of a mistaken meal

A few moments ago, my littlest sibling ventured into my room with a small platter of greens and picked flowers. She proffered it to me. I must say, it was quite the colourful platter.

I was confused at first, and her face was almost unreadable. I quickly deduced that what she was offering me was a little pick of her tiny buffet of what I assumed were edible flowers, made all the more a reasonable idea since she held a leaf of lettuce in her hand.

“Great,” I thought. “Edible flowers. Tasty.” I picked one up and quickly threw it into my mouth, hoping to make her smile with how quickly I ate it up.

Something was wrong. Her face fell and she all but ran from the room and down into the kitchen.

I removed my last headphone to better hear what I could hear from my perch upstairs.

Crying.

What had I done? What was wrong? Did I eat the wrong flower?

I probed the stairs with careful feet and made my way into the dining room. It quickly became abundantly clear what she had wanted me to do.

My little sister of ten years was kind enough to see if I had wanted to say goodbye to her dead fish. I had picked up, chewed, and eaten a piece of the tiny bouquet that heralded the body of her dead pet goldfish that lay mere millimetres from the tiny orange corpse.

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