Withering away from the day they were planted, the flowers of mauve begin to dry as mere memory.
The woman who had planted them was careless — clutched abruptly from the pot to be shoved where the soil shown most convenient, only to be forgotten of once the roots were once again covered.
I didn’t forget.
It was a Friday morning, the rain fell bashfully, almost as if asking for consent.
I’d only been living here for a couple weeks then. For some time after, the rain returned more confident than ever — as if I denied consent and it rebelled on anyways.
Weakened, were the flowers of mauve to become as it began to drown in its own source of life. It amazes me how the same thing that keeps us going can also, so easily, become the reason we cease all together. This contrasted suffering shown beautiful.
I, too, drowned beneath a life source in disguise; not so beautifully. Convinced I planted myself carelessly and wrongfully, believing that perhaps I wasn’t to be planted anywhere at all.
The rain withered, as if caressing my face asking for forgiveness. Kissed were the flowers of defeat; a couple days of sun did them wonders. They, too, found confidence in coming back stronger than before.
I chose the same.
Now, I watch as the flowers continue their course of life, beautifully. Though planted careless, they knew not of the importance of such placement, but how to weather the storm that came with their serendipitous life given.