by: Grace Masingale
When we went to the flowers, I still lived in Portland. Portland was the city that always was rainy, but I didn’t mind because I got to wear rain boots and splash in puddles and rain doesn’t really mean anything to kids that like puddles. Rain means something to grownups who leave when it is rainy and come home when it is rainy. Rain means something to grownups who miss the sun. Rain means that the sky is gray and cloudy, but I don’t mind. Mom, who is pretty not like a mom, but like a person, doesn’t like the rain.
Mom, who is warm like the sun, likes flowers. Dad, who is tall and gentle like a flower, likes mom, so we go to visit the flowers. We drive and drive and drive and drive and mom tells me how the flowers smell and look and why she likes them. I look through the window at the sky, which is cloudy. The clouds look like pillows, or shapes, or anything else if you look at them long and hard enough. Mom gives up trying to tell me about the flowers and Dad laughs. We are still driving. Driving is a silver color, and waiting is blue.
When you see the flowers they are tall like the ones that Alice met, and I wonder where they wear their thorns. They are skinny like nothing at all and then pretty at the top, just out of reach. They smell nice like Mom promised, nice like summer and warm like color. The flowers are like fire, they spread all around me. They are yellow like bananas. They are red like a Valentine’s Day card. They are easy to get lost in like the first day of school.
Mom and Dad are taking pictures with a camera that is silver like the moon. They take pictures of me and my coat is big and warm, like a hug from someone who matters. They take enough pictures to show everyone in the world how I look. Pictures like dark blue and a best friend. Pictures to remember the flowers and their colors and the way rain drops onto all things. Pictures to remember looking for puddles only to realize, too late, that your rain boots are gone.
Image taken from the Istanbul Insider.