The Flowers

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

We only lived in that house for a year

and I was only six, but I remember

things. Like, Mom planted a row of

flowers along the walkway to the

front door. They were red and

yellow and orange and shaped like

rooster combs. “Cock’s combs,” a

neighbor said. They fascinated me,

how a flower could look like part

of a chicken. I watched them for

endless minutes, like I expected

something to happen and didn’t

dare miss it. I knew something of

magic then. Perhaps, I simply

expected they’d become chickens,

scratching about the yard for seed

and small insects. But, maybe it

was something even more

miraculous than that. Maybe, it

was some bigger knowing that had

possession over me. I’d put some

in a pot on the stoop of my first

house. For no particular reason, I

thought. And, there would come  

the day when I’d be standing in the

Amazon and meet a field full of the

ancestors of Mom’s flowers, as tall

as me, and I’d feel an odd sense

of family and want to tell someone

about it, but there was no one to tell.

Then, a day would arrive when I’d

have my very own chickens and

while watching them strut, cluck,

and scratch, I’d remember being

a little girl watching flowers, and

realize that I was still watching them.

We shouldn’t underestimate children.

They become something else.

© 2016-2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Plant Songs" (a work in progress)

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