Did anyone see Iris?

Iris sat down on the couch, her legs crossed on the pillows, a juice box and a bag of sycamore chips in a spicy green sauce, that made her think of the South American sun and even of the morning zumba class, with that Cuban instructor who while dancing looked like Oxumaré and when laughing was, unequivocally, Exu.
Zumba: a novelty for her, who used to think of her body as a tree trunk devoid of sap.
But in Brazil, during that initiation ritual, she had connected to her spiritual roots and now she felt full of energy, with a new self-awareness: finally she knew that she liked to dance.
Lost in these victorious thoughts, Iris was zapping on tv when she realized that on the news they were talking about her: they denounced her disappearance.
Her family was looking for her ... strange: she had seen them that morning!
She looked at the photos that were shown and listened to how they were describing her ... that elegant, formal, impeccable lady, a little stiff, probably scared, certainly repressed, was not the girl who ate fried plantains in front of the TV.
She laughed like Exu!
They were looking for the old rootless tree, while she was now a leafy and flowery tree, whose branches dance in the wind.

Iris, flower of sincerity.