A/N: This is the end of the Seedless Trilogy.
After a while the smell of nectar gets a little nauseating. Maybe it’s just me though.
People say I should relax, I can’t get over it. That sweet, sticky smell. Not only does it fill up my nose and lungs, it runs down my neck sometimes. I feel it on my neck and in my armpits when the sun is really hot. I can’t get over it but it smells pretty good. When the sun is really hot and it feels like I can’t breathe, that scent is all that’s there. It fills up my head and relaxes me.
When it’s unbearably hot and the bees and birds come around I try and stay still and focus on the ambiance. I always liked being outside. I liked being at the seaside with my family staring at the golden flecks of sand stuck to my skin and running into the sea to wash them off and throwing myself back on the ground like a rabid dog painting myself with gold.
I never really thought about all these things before, about how connected I felt to nature. Or how I could lose myself in the little things that everyone just walked by, like the rays of sunlight, the crunch of clumpy soil underneath my feet. There’s a rosebush I sit by. When it’s windy, all I can smell are these addictive roses. It feels seductive and inappropriate how much time I spend obsessing over those petals. They feel silky when they fly into me and slide down my skin and I count the seconds before they hit the ground. They collect at my feet and tickle my toes. Even when they rot, they’re scintillating.
This much happiness and serenity sometimes is confusing. I don’t see how it can last this long and I don’t see how every day can be the same and be so exciting still. And who would have thought I could be excited about rain? I mean I liked the smell of rain but now I get a tingle once the weather cools. I gaze up at the rain clouds almost religiously, admiring the swaths of light hiding in the cracks. I enjoy watching the droplets falling off the thorns of the roses and the dew drops settling in those incredible petals. The dips and curves of each flower, the pigment as it grows in the sun, but it’s the swirls that get me every time. I stare at those swirls and run my eyes through this labyrinth and my vision doesn’t go blurry.
I do this until the sun dips below the horizon and I can’t see a thing anymore.
I live in a field now. It isn’t much but there’s wild grass and sunflowers; often trampled on by horseshoes and the tiny sneakers of 6 year olds. There are tulips that show up every now and then and peonies and paperwhites fighting each other for the attention of the flower crown-wearing-girls that are always pulling ears from their brains and digging up philosopher’s stones from that tiny corner of the earth only they know. There were daisies but they died 2 weeks ago and nothing has been the same since. Before I came, the fields were full of hydrangeas but they were plucked out to fill up bouquets for sleazy men’s wives.
The carnations huddle together for fear of being picked. They are mostly sad and scared because there are really only a few left now. The calla lilies are dying and everyone is holding their breath. We all know they will die and we have more than enough grief already. The blue morning glory is mostly alone; there used to be more of those but no-one will tell me what happened. It reads like a tragedy, I’ve heard. I don’t need to be told. The blue morning glory is by far the most beautiful flower in this field but it droops over sadly; hiding its beauty and minimising its misery, and frankly, I’m too scared to ask.
I’m the only tree here. There is a patch of scratchy, disgusting, dried-up grass around me. It’s awful to look at, the yellow and the brown bleed into the green and the blades sit packed on top of each other; crushed by peaches and fleshy underneaths of thighs. The heat from the bodies help the petals to rot faster. Baby rabbits run around in the grass where it’s high and unruly because they know there’s no snakes here and they hide in the holes they’ve burrowed at my feet when the dogs come. They climb up my branches when the teenagers aren’t sitting on or underneath them and play with the apples in my hair. Since I am the only tree, I try and look out for the others so I watch them come and go because it’s all I can see from up here. On my bad days it feels heavier than the teenagers.
The rosebush has been here longer than me so every minute I spend admiring those roses I do so hesitantly. I brace myself because like every other flower, one day those roses will be gone. There probably will be more beautiful flowers taking their place, I’ve seen them lining up around the morning glory; orchids and dahlias that look like they been plucked straight from the rainbow. They’re tiny and almost nonexistent and no-one sees them but me and the flower crown girls. I don’t know what it is about this field that compels these gems to sprout from this cursed land where the visitors tread barefoot, walking on Fabergé egg shells. The story of this soil is not as pretty as her children but we live here obnoxiously, to our detriment.
I’ll be here after they’re all gone, so someone will know they died too and they didn’t just disappear and no, you can’t grow poppies here.