Along the Sun

I bloomed in a prairie grassland, somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

The weather has always been kind to me— the sun warm enough to help me grow, and the rain soft enough to let me rest. I like facing the sun whenever I can. I’m not sure if it’s because I like the hearth, or simply because I was made like this by the creator.

The grassland I live in is, unfortunately, inhabited by humans as well.

So it’s no joke when I say that I’ve seen pretty strange things, despite my short lifespan.

Even when I was beneath the soil, I could hear the hums of a woman waiting for her offspring. I spent my days listening to her speak to herself. Sometimes, she would narrate stories of when she was a young girl— about how she dreamed of going to a big city to become an actress. Some days, she’d talk about the joy of working at the farm, living with nature. But more often than not, she’d weep. She’d weep over the almost, and she’d weep over the road not taken.

But at the end of the day, when she was done laughing and crying, she’d touch her stomach and whisper, “I hope to tell you all of this again, when you can understand me.”

Perhaps because I’m part of nature, I’ve always possessed something called wild instincts. I could sense the soul of the child ever since I could make sense of the world around me. The little one’s soul— so golden in colour— put the sun to shame. But alas, there are things people pay for beauty. For a soul so bright, it was utterly weak for the darkness of the world.

The child was brave, and as bravely as it fought, when it finally came into this world, it screamed. It wailed and cried for nights and days. The mother, despite her fatigue, loved her little one nonetheless. Until one day, the little one coughed— and then some more— and then spewed a little red from its mouth. I believe it was something similar to our plasma. Something humans call… blood?

I was now a mature flower, in full bloom, and I could hear the child giggling as it played with the windcatchers over its crib. The mother spent her days beside that same crib, her hair dishevelled, her legs folded and numb.

By the time the child was brought outside again, I was already nearing the end of what I had been made for. Flowers like me do not live long. We are allowed our season, and then we return what we borrowed. I had faced the sun enough times to know when it was time to stop.

The child was quieter now. Its golden soul no longer burned the way it once had— it grew only dull by day. The mother laid the child down not far from me, careful in the way people are when they already know the outcome. She brushed the grass aside, smoothed the soil, and left us alone together.

The child looked at me. I am certain of it. There is a way living things recognize each other when both are close to leaving. Its breathing slowed, matching the still air of the grassland. When it stopped altogether, the sun had begun its descent— warm still, but no longer insisting.

I tried to face it one last time. Habit, perhaps. Or instinct. But my stem could no longer hold, and my petals— once wide and obedient— gave in. I bent toward the earth, toward the child, toward rest. There was no pain in it. Only contentment.

By the next morning, there was little difference between us. Just soil, returning to itself. A hundred days for me. Far fewer for the child. Yet somehow, it felt even.

I bloomed in a prairie grassland, somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

The weather had been kind to me. The sun had been warm. The rain had let me rest.

And when it was time to return to the ground, I did not do it alone.