We Are What We Grow

Back in my childhood days I would dream of when my time would come. My mother would brush my hair and tell me about her blossoming ceremony. Family and only the closest of friends would gather outdoors and shower their loved one in fresh spring water, unearthing their first personal foliage. Flowers would sprout from anywhere sunlight could reach. Heads, faces, arms, legs, shoulders, hands, feet, sometimes even ribs and backs! It was all so fascinating to me back then and I used to crave the gardenias that my mother had on her thighs and the azaleas on her chest. I would braid her hair and color pictures of flowers and run in the grass barefoot.

When my time came, I was a late teen. I invited two of my friends to attend my ceremony and I fell to my knees upon being showered in cool water. My first blossoms were peach daffodils, a linear patch going down my left leg. Later, in my twenties, I received purple calla lillies that framed the back of my head as they sprouted. My thirties brought me two beautiful children and the same gardenias that my mother had on my stomach.

My mother fell ill in my mid-thirties and her flowers wilted three months later. My tears grew pink carnations that flooded my cheecks like freckles and her grave grew mossy. I still think about her when I look down, and it brings me solace that we shared blooms.

I look to the future, excited for my childrens first ceremonies. Excited to see what kind of people they become and how their flowers reflect their experiences just as mine have. My daffodils, marked as a renewal from when I had finally found myself and was comfortable in my own skin. My lillies, ever so vibrant and captivating, shown the passion I felt for my partner that I was already certain I’d grow old with. Gardenias that represented strength grew clustered on my stomach after I finally welcomed my beautiful children when we were told there was a low chance that they would make it. The carnations upon my face, I firmly believe were my mothers parting gift to me. We still are unsure of how we came to grow these natural beauties, but I know my mother gave them to me. I always get asked how this could be, and I tell them that the pink carnation carries the meaning of a mother’s undying love. I carry her with me everywhere and all that I ever hope people see now when they look at my face is just that. A flower that will never truly wilt even after I am gone.

Love.