On a summer evening, I lay upon the grass beside the cliff, thinking of my mother and of her love of flowers.
Her birthday was creeping up, and surely I wouldn’t want to celebrate empty handed.
Chocolates were tasty, but they wouldn’t do. I couldn’t just write a letter, that’s just lazy. Not to mention, no flower would dare grow in these rocky parts.
So I stood, stretched my limbs, and scanned the hills, covered with green upon greens in all visible directions.
I walk towards the south, seeking the flower she would like. Perhaps a Poppy, perhaps a Rose, perhaps the first thing that stands at my feet.
From the grasses, the trees and sunflowers grow, making busy work off of previously undisturbed terrain.
From the baby bushes, children skip out, hiding behind the shadows of the trees, laughing without fear of where they are.
Do they not wonder how to get home? Do they bear a compass at hand? They hop and wander without concern, yet I worry, for no one else will be here to guide them back. I only hope they hop back home, before they realize the forest never grows familiarity, but solace.
Either way, I find no good flowers here; they smell of false hope and ignorant courage, so I will go west, in hopes of better colors.
In the far west, lay more flowers of a darker variety. Shades of blue, purple, and occasional gray were scattered amongst the grass by my feet. They were pretty, but as with most things graced with beauty, fragile to a fault.
They have not yet lost their beauty, despite having lost their form. I look at the mess, it reminds me of wasted potential; of the tenderness of a good cry, without the satisfaction of having an empty well. I hold myself, it’s not the time yet. I still have something to find.
I head up north, towards a more familiar, yet distant area, a desolate town, one with empty streets caked with dust and lost dreams. The houses bore different shapes, but each had a common pain; each house had something missing from it. Many of them didn’t have a door to keep others out. Some had no window, with no way to see outside from within. One was all empty inside, no substance, no means to go on.
The town, as it always did, had a way of changing where you would go, spinning you around till you were dizzy, making one stray from the path one had decided to take, until they’ve lost their sense of self, like I have, many times. It’s still strange how many times I find myself here, despite always trying to walk away.
I look down, close my eyes, and let the wind guide me away. It’s only a few steps before my eyes open once more, but only a few steps for the town to disappear behind me, as if it only existed in memories and dreams.
I head my way back to the East, my hands empty and my heart heavy. I’ve not found the flower for my mother, nor a way to prove myself to her. I have failed once more as I’ve done before. How shall I provide, if I know not how to gather?
Head down, shame high, I walk towards the creaking dark gates. I know she gazes at me, looking down with contempt. I fear what she might say and of what she’ll hold back, but mostly I fear what she may hold for me.
Upon the grassy cliff, surrounded by whistling weeds, there sat a red flower, in front of the grave of my mother. Had she grown it herself? Was it by mere chance? Could she provide for me, as she has done for herself?
I lay down, the weeds and grass entangling me. Words slip through my lips, unintelligible to even myself. Tears glide across my dry cheeks, giving shine to my freckles. My muscles fail to contract anymore. I breathe out now. It’s time.
This is my town. This is my home. This is where I lay. I will fear no longer, and surrender my will to a purpose misunderstood by me. Myself does not matter, I know now to behave, so I shall stay right here, right by my mother’s grave.
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