Wildflowers

“Now, I know I’m not the most Godliest woman,” I started, my six foot stature crunching grass and straw under new Drew clog slip ons. “But isn’t it weird how the universe throws people in our lives for specific amounts of time to make an impact, and then they’re gone? How paths just bend and intersect.”

There was the back tail of my mismatch print kimono I was wearing dancing at my ankles; it continued to tickle the edge of my tight leggings as we strolled down the afternoon sun-trail. We stopped for brightly colored flowers along the way, collecting them at the stems in left-palmed bunches.

“Yeah,” Lori interrupted the silence, “life is so fragile”

Her bouquet had about 3:1 yellow compared to mine, thanks to a large yellow flowery bunch she found a few seconds before I did- but my wildflower bouquet had more purple from when I picked a bundle which I didn’t notice the wasp nest in the bird house nearby until I about got stung. I stopped and picked the most perfect, ripest orangest daisy I could find and offered it to the pretty lady herself.

Lori smiled and chuckled a little. “You know, growing up, I would always go out and pick wildflowers for my mother.” She stopped and put the daisy up to her nose, and started to breathe it in.

“She would get a vase and put water in it, and always go on about how pretty they are… I know you want to give some flowers to Ricky, but I think you should make another bouquet for your mom.”

I ended up making one huge plethora of flowers to divvy up, but they all ended up wilting and dying in my van from the September sun. I could have sworn I put them in the shade…

Published by Stephanie Staup

Healer and lover first. Human second.

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