Flower Child

Willa and Georgia, being five and six years older than me, chose, as children, their flowers first. Georgia chose lilies of the valley and Willa had daisies. I loved all flowers, and was disappointed that I couldn't count theirs among the rest, though I had no interest in possession.

"What is your favorite flower?" Only women understood this question. My father jokingly called every flower a "sweet pea" as I, scruffy wildflower, dutifully tended his secret garden with one long-neck Strohs after the other, the TV droning loudly and men all across town putting their feet up after a hard day's work.

Few men could fight in a war and express joy in a flower. Flowers were as unnoticed as women, who were allowed scholarship of the irrelevant, in fields vast and immaterial. Open ornamental wild and strong. Pansies petunias silly girls. Dolly was an underrated chrysanthemum, spicy hardy and long-lasting. Shrinking violets. Lovely lady slippers. Do not pick! Some women were roses, but none in my family. I have known women who were prickly and sour, nasturtiums and nettles. Invasive. Cultivated. Delicate and sweet, aggressive, bold, tempermental. Impermanent. Beautiful.

I love water lilies riding on a lake. A frog sits motionless on a shiny green lilly pad. Waxy bright buttercups and a field full of dandelions. The miracle of a jack-in-the-pulpit in the forest and apple blossoms falling like pink rain in blue sky. All are my flowers, but I will not claim them for my own. I will share them with you, good friend. Every one is for you.