Concrete Flower

She is a flower.

She was born and raised in the weeds, though she never saw herself as such. She preferred the term “wildflower” and saw those around her as strong, capable, determined, beautiful, and kind.

It became claustrophobic. She knew she’d leave the wilderness. She wanted more than the sun, the breeze, and all the flowers around her, competing for space and attention. She wanted a big life with opportunity.

In her mind she saw a beautiful garden nearby, or a lovely little planter box outside a cottage, where she’d be able to thrive with space, being lavished with love, and given everything she’d need or want to be happy the rest of her life. She’d be close enough to wave to her wildflower patch and smile, knowing they too were happy and cared for in the way they’d needed, a way different from hers. 

When she left her weed bed with an equally optimistic partner at her side, she was promised all this, and she was ready to work hard to achieve and attain it, together with her partner and future wildlings.

What happened was a little different. On her way to the cottage she’d thought about in her mind for as long as she could remember, she was dropped into the crack of the sidewalk. She was told she would thrive anywhere, to bloom where she was planted. When she looked around and saw no one from her old patch of dirt, she felt like a weed for the first time. Lonely and alone and stuck in the sidewalk crack.

Her life became a series of obstacles and moments. She couldn’t quite get enough sun and the rain was never gentle and soothing without the rest of her patch to shield it together. She was always in danger of being stepped on or yanked up as a weed who didn’t belong. She asked the world for just a bit more dirt, or someone to talk to, to share the sunshine with, to dream with. A friend. A family member. Someone familiar.

She got words of wisdom from the birds flying by. Notes from home passed along from butterflies. Everyone supported her from afar, applauding her strength and bravery as though going it alone and staying alive was worthy of praise. She’d done it. She’d gotten out of the wild. 

Her partner became a bee, coming in and taking what he needed and flying away to thrive in the fresh air. He’d check to make sure she was safe and remind her to bloom where she’s planted. She technically had what she needed, and couldn’t understand why she continued to struggle, as she was expected to live her big life within the small crack of concrete. 

Then the baby flowers came, planted alongside her in the slice of struggle. 

She had a new task then: help her little wildflowers thrive in a condition they don’t even see as unnatural. Make sure they have enough sunlight, shelter them from the rain storms and giant feet running around them. Help them learn and grow and shower them in unconditional love and acceptance. Tell stories of a far off wildflower patch, knowing they would never know life there.

The beautiful aging wildflower gave everything she had to her wildlings, providing a sense of shelter and safety that she herself lacked. She kept dreaming, this time to be back in her patch, flowing in the gentle spring breeze. She longed for the quiet comfort, the bustling of neighbors and loved ones stretching and lazing in their crowded corners.