Southern Voices

I do not exactly know what I was expecting when I opened The Language of Flowers and started reading, but I do not think that I was expecting to be completely and utterly amazed and captivated by the story right from the very first paragraph:

For eight years I dreamed of fire. Tree ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. (pg 3)