Not even two, she barely speaks the language—any language—as she’s dwarfed by white hydrangeas. Her face surrounded by large spheres of blossoms that rival any cosmic starburst. But she’s indifferent to the laws of astrophysics or botany: indifferent as the flowers are to her presence, her touch. Her father takes a video. Not the daguerreotype of old Paris—muted, strained, the young girls starched into their sedate lives near the Tuileries Garden. But the flash of the digital world. The new millennium girl adrift in the color and sound of bending the long green stems, rubbing her cheek against the white gift they offer. The father intent on capturing her before she’s gone.

Bio: Linda Nemec Foster