In the middle of my mother’s garden, spring had given birth to a peculiar flower. A single, lonely stalk amidst a gathering of clustered flowers. At night, she had strong roots to anchor herself against the wind, and when morning came, the bees would beg for nectar; kind and generous, she always bowed to let them drink. When summer arrived with the sun at its peak, she was the last of the garden to wilt. By August, she was helpless outside my window; dry and tired from the heat.
Out of pity, I went to unroot her with my hands in her sleep; gently, I started to bury her where the soil was moist and cool. I thought of the bees and how they could no longer bother her. Here, in the shade and away from the rest of the inhabitants of my mother’s garden, I would water her out of my own glass. It was better this way. And I was right. In less than a week, she had grown to fill the spaces I carved into this pot.
She grew and grew to the point where her roots had reached the surface, yet her exquisite, white petals were in full bloom. I couldn’t understand why this hadn’t been done sooner. On why something so beautiful had to be robbed of comfort, denied of luxury. Until I left only to come back months later.
Autumn had spoiled her with rain, and it watered her bloated and rotten. It split her stem almost evenly in the middle — and now exposed to the air, her nectar was cooked; the scent released, sweet and tender. This had forced the insects out of hiding. Aphids buried themselves inside her stalk while the maggots ravaged her roots, whereas the stench of rotting meat attracted worms and beetles from underneath the stones. She stared at me as the ants kept themselves busy. The last ones to arrive were the flies, who only swept down to lick at the eyes of the poor bugs that had drunk their stomachs open. The noisy swarm had scared the bees away to the far side of the garden, who fled in an irregular, desperate manner. Finally, winter left with the clouds. There was no funeral in my mother’s garden. There was only the sun, the breeze, and an empty pot. So I picked it up, and rinsed it under the warm water. Because in the middle of my mother’s garden, spring had given birth to another peculiar flower. A single, lonely stalk amidst a gathering of clustered flowers. Out of pity, I picked her up and buried her under the shade, where the soil was moist and cool.
-A.Z, i still have a garden