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By Jasmyne Post
On letting go and moving on.
I have a flower on my windowsill. It’s been there since I can remember, and I don’t imagine that it will ever leave. In fact, I’m not sure that it can. I have a theory that the flower got a little more of the earth than other plants generally do. Perhaps it got more than it bargained for. Anyway, there is little sense in worrying about that. It wasn’t its choice and it’s not going to change now. When I was young, I believed that the flower’s petals had powers. I could have sworn that every time I gathered the fallen pieces and sprinkled them in the woods that, in time, trees would sprout. Not just any trees mind you. These trees were ethereal and led straight to God.
Now I am older, and I know that there is no magic in the veins of those petals. Though somehow, I remain fully beholden to their powers. I water the flower everyday and pray for its buds, or maybe to its buds as I turn it towards the light. Other people used to help me, but they quit believing in the magic a long time ago. I can’t blame them, but I am not as lucky. You see, I have another theory that if the flower dies then so do I. Call me naïve, superstitious, or just plain foolish. You wouldn’t be the first and I don’t care if you’re the last. This is my flower. You have your own if you really focus and stop looking past it.
I say all of this because there has been a development. The other day as I was walking North, I went a little farther than usual and saw a field. The field was full of flowers, all different but each with that extra bit of earth I thought I would only see once. In that moment, I felt the petals in my pocket jump. Part of me knew why, but how was I to believe it?
When I returned home, I took time to pay extra attention to the flower’s pot. It seemed equally sturdy and fragile and I knew it was my decision as to what happened next. In the past when I had transported the flower, it rode in the basket of my bicycle. This time I was not in a hurry. In fact, I almost turned around a million times. When I arrived at the little field up North, I was surprised at how foreign my hands felt as they turned the dirt over on the base of the stem. I looked at my flower in harmony with all the others and felt new. Who was I now that the flower was fending for itself?
I’m not sure. I guess it’s time to find out.
Jasmyne Post is a McConnell Scholar in the class of 2021. She is studying English and Political Science at the University of Louisville.
On letting go and moving on.
I have a flower on my windowsill. It’s been there since I can remember, and I don’t imagine that it will ever leave. In fact, I’m not sure that it can. I have a theory that the flower got a little more of the earth than other plants generally do. Perhaps it got more than it bargained for. Anyway, there is little sense in worrying about that. It wasn’t its choice and it’s not going to change now. When I was young, I believed that the flower’s petals had powers. I could have sworn that every time I gathered the fallen pieces and sprinkled them in the woods that, in time, trees would sprout. Not just any trees mind you. These trees were ethereal and led straight to God.
Now I am older, and I know that there is no magic in the veins of those petals. Though somehow, I remain fully beholden to their powers. I water the flower everyday and pray for its buds, or maybe to its buds as I turn it towards the light. Other people used to help me, but they quit believing in the magic a long time ago. I can’t blame them, but I am not as lucky. You see, I have another theory that if the flower dies then so do I. Call me naïve, superstitious, or just plain foolish. You wouldn’t be the first and I don’t care if you’re the last. This is my flower. You have your own if you really focus and stop looking past it.
I say all of this because there has been a development. The other day as I was walking North, I went a little farther than usual and saw a field. The field was full of flowers, all different but each with that extra bit of earth I thought I would only see once. In that moment, I felt the petals in my pocket jump. Part of me knew why, but how was I to believe it?
When I returned home, I took time to pay extra attention to the flower’s pot. It seemed equally sturdy and fragile and I knew it was my decision as to what happened next. In the past when I had transported the flower, it rode in the basket of my bicycle. This time I was not in a hurry. In fact, I almost turned around a million times. When I arrived at the little field up North, I was surprised at how foreign my hands felt as they turned the dirt over on the base of the stem. I looked at my flower in harmony with all the others and felt new. Who was I now that the flower was fending for itself?
I’m not sure. I guess it’s time to find out.
Jasmyne Post is a McConnell Scholar in the class of 2021. She is studying English and Political Science at the University of Louisville.