I’m a flower.
I’m serious.
A simple, white daisy. Most people don’t take me seriously. I guess I don’t really blame them; after all, I’m just a flower. And it’s not like I’m anything really special. I’m no rose—that’s for sure.
What value does a flower have anyway? All we do is live. Grow, die. It’s not like we just jump out of our beds and make something of ourselves in the world. I don’t exactly wrestle my roots out of the ground and serve the common good. I just…grow. Until I die.
Most of us don’t even live very long. Some of my perennial buddies in the neighboring flower bed talk about what it’s like to see spring again. The way the sun seems to yawn across the valley after its long winter sleep. The icy snow that covered and insulated their soft beds begins to melt; and they begin to slowly push their heads towards the sunlight.
I can’t lie, I really do wish I was more than an annual. I’ll see the light of day until the sky decides to switch it up a little and bring on the harsh clouds to hide the sun. I’ll live until the air begins to whisper more urgently against my tender petals, and I might survive until the clouds begin to sob angry snowflakes.
I’ll live until the summer dies.
Life is good in the flower pot of old widowed Mrs. Violet McGee. Nice lady. She took pity on my weathered petals, and tenderly placed me in the pretty red flower pot on her front step. The thorns of my neighboring rose friend seemed to climb towards me as I blossomed in the sun, jealous probably. Not a lot to be jealous of.
I mean think about it, the rose is the most sought after flower in all romantic history. Roses climbed the balcony of Juliet’s room as Romeo pronounced his love! The seductive phantom is desperately in love with Christine—and what is his token for the affection he feels? A rose! Blood red and beautiful. So many words in so few petals. You don’t hear about the Beast freaking out at Belle in the west wing over a daisy.
The wind understands how I feel sometimes, and sighs through my saddened leaves. My head bobs to the right, and I can see Stevey Cameron sneaking over to Mrs. McGee’s granddaughter’s window. Guess what he’s got in his left hand. A rose, of course.
Little Cassie Jensen is on her tricycle again, petal’s flying furiously, her chubby little hands gripping the handles with desperation as her little thumb jumps on the bell to gain her mother’s attention.
“Slow down Cassie! Look where you’re going!”
Uh oh. Poor Stevey Cameron was having second thoughts about expressing his affections; he was seriously debating this in the middle of the sidewalk gazing longingly at the window closest to the ground. And Cassie was flying, her little blonde curls dancing in the wind—a look of horror on her face when she realized she would not be able to pull a sharp turn to avoid a collision.
Stevey looked up just before Cassie flung her hands to her eyes, her mouth in a horrified grimace to brace herself for the impact.
I wish I had eyes to close.
Little Cassie plummeted from her bike like a cannon ball; her arms flying—her body limp. She barely skimmed Stevey’s shoulder, but it was enough to jolt the fall from becoming too serious, he caught her in his arms. The little bike may have caused a bruise or two on Steve’s right leg, but it would be nothing compared to Cassie’s injuries judging by the scream she let out.
Her mother had already been sprinting across the street, and she pulled Cassie out of Steve’s arms to cradle her in her own. That child could scream.
Mrs. McGee followed shortly by Susie Lou—her granddaughter—came bustling out of the front door; the breeze from their running bumped my head on the wall. The stem that held it up jostled a bit, but quickly held my head up again.
“…what happened? My golly I thought someone had been seriously injured—Stevey are you alright—” Mrs. McGee was wiping a hand on her flowered apron, the other hand adjusting the hair that always needed fixing.
Stevey’s face turned as red as a rose as one hand found the back of his neck and the other held the secret affections of a girl that stood before him.
“I’m fine ma’am,” he said quietly, his eyes taking a chance at Susie’s, “guess we didn’t see it comin,’” he bit at a lip when he noticed Susie’s suspicious glance.
“Well what happened?” Susie asked, “Is Cassie alright? Her mother sure looked like she was gonna have a cow,” she shook her head.
“S’not so bad,” Steve muttered, “I caught her before she hit the pavement. Might have a couple of scratches s’all.”
“Well, I can’t imagine why that girl wasn’t lookin’ where she was goin,’” Mrs. McGee shook her head, “If you ask me that child is spoiled.”
“Yeah,” Susie agreed, “Last week her daddy gave her a brand new tricycle for no good reason. There’s folks on this block that can’t afford an old one for their tot.”
They all murmured in accord.
“Say Steve, what were you doin’ over here? Need something?” Mrs. McGee asked.
Stevey blushed again, unable to look up,
“Just comin’ by for a visit I ‘spose,” he mumbled, still hiding the rose behind his back.
“Well come on in!” Mrs. McGee said delightedly, “I’m sure you’ll want some lemonade. Damn hot if you ask me. Susie Lou just made some cookies.”
Stevey looked uncomfortable,
“Alright, as long as I’m not pryin’ or anythin.”
“Of course not! Why, Susie and I was just talkin bout you.” Mrs. McGee bubbled, leading the way towards the house.
“That right?”
“Granma!” It was now Susie’s pretty face that had turned red, but Mrs. McGee simply pursed her lips, twisting her face from a smile.
“Now, now, let’s not get angry. It was nothin.’ We was just sayin’ how you’re turnin’ into quite a handsome young fella.”
I could see from Susie’s expression that she was getting very angry. I shuddered away from the door as they walked in, jabbering on. Steven had stuffed the rose into his back left pocket. I wondered how long it would take for them to notice—or he to forget and accidently sit on it.
The sun blared down, but I soaked in the heat. Mrs. McGee had poured plenty of water for my thirsty roots to slurp right up, and once again; the surprisingly rejected rose seemed to glare with its angry thorns.
I watched as an ice cream truck rolled by, that annoying music blaring as a tired old man driving it adjusted the stuffed cotton in his ears. A child across the street—I suspect it was Bobby Carsen—pressed his nose against the window, his eager eyes following the truck hungrily.
The fed-ex guy pulled up next to the curb and began to make his way towards the door. He yanked up his faltering belt, his belly sagging over it threateningly. He adjusted his forest green hat before ringing the door bell, a small package thrust under an arm.
“Oh, hello Otis. Package today?” Mrs. McGee held out a hand to take it and he nodded, chuckling.
“Third one this week. Somebody’s birthday?” he asked, handing her a clipboard to sign.
“Actually, yes. Susie’s turnin seventeen tomorra,” she laughed, “Never thought she had so many admirers.”
“Have a nice day, ma’am.” He turned, the key chain from his belt swinging dangerously towards my head. The rose in the shadows hissed in satisfaction as the metal key caught in my petals, ripping part of my stem.
Ow.
That hurt.
The sun shone through my raw covering, but I could do nothing about it. If I could speak I might cry. I remember when Susie came out on the steps one night and was crying about something. Talking to the cat like it could understand. Lazy things, all they cared about was getting pet and cooed at.
I watched Cassie’s mother come out of the house to retrieve the turned over bicycle, muttering angry words under her breath as she scanned the premises.
No Stevey Cameron blubbering in apologies for knocking her sweet little girl to the ground.
A fat bumble bee flew towards me, tempted to steal my pollen. Its tiny little wings shouldn’t have been able to carry its weight, but still it chugged along. It chose the pink dahlia that stood just a little higher than me. If I could I would have shrugged. I was just a white daisy.
I was surprised to hear the door open again, Susie and Stevey stepped out onto the porch.
“Are ya sure you don’t want to stay a little longer? Just sit on the swing with me for a while?” Susie’s voice was as gentle as honey, and Stevey didn’t resist.
“For a while I guess.”
I saw the rose still carefully stuffed in his pocket. I wondered if she had seen it. They were silent for a while, and at first all you could hear was the creak of the swing as it moved back and forth, the gentle breeze rustled my leaves. Finally Susie spoke:
“You ‘member that time you came to my window couple months ago? Right when spring was comin’?” Susie asked, and I watched as Steve’s face went pink.
“Yeah, I remember.” He mumbled uncomfortably, afraid to meet her gaze.
“Hmm.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I just wondered…”
“Wondered what?” He asked, intensity in his voice.
“Well…why? Why did you go to my window that night?” she asked, her voice still soft. “You never got around to tellin’ me. Just knocked on my window, said hello…and well, you ran away.”
“It was two in the morning.” He reminded her.
“Exactly.” She muttered, looking annoyed.
“Alright—Susie I—” he paused, his eyes searching the sky for words. They weren’t there. Just clouds.
“Yes?” Susie prompted, her eyes meaningful.
“I—” he sighed, his face faltering, “I needed to borrow a piece of paper.”
“Paper!” she gasped, “Well I’ll be. Stevey Cameron you are one strange boy.” She stood, her face furious.
“Wait—Susie don’t go—”
“No. Just—leave. Go away Steven.” She began to walk towards the door.
“No—stop. Just let me give you this.”
She paused, looking over her shoulder and then noticing the flower in his hand. I looked closer, surprised. That didn’t look like a real flower. But at the same time—it did. It was so realistic—made out of some weird material.
She turned all the way, folding her arms.
“I needed paper…to make you this.” He took a few steps closer, gently giving her the delicate flower.
“Paper Mache,” she murmured, her fingertips touching the papery petals.
“Susie Lou,” he whispered, closing the distance between them and taking her empty hand, “I’ll love you until it dies.”
If I had lips I would smile.
Since they had lips—well, they kissed.
I love to be a flower.
You missed some apostrophes after words like "anythin'", but you remembered for the majority.
