Original Deviation

The air grabs my hand and we twirl around the world. Riding the current of the wind is the greatest freedom one can experience. I dance, carefree and detached, until I spot you, down on one knee, paying tribute to the most beautiful flower I have ever seen. Spellbound by your tender expression, I stop in my tracks and let the breeze escape my grasp. It barely tickles my fingers as it flies away. Shyly, uncertainly, I approach you.

You look up and smile, but it isn’t the same as the subtle smile you had when you were gazing upon the red rose. That one was mesmerizing. You stand up and extend a calloused, dirt-cased hand in welcome. Spurred by curiosity, I take it. Your grasp is strong and firm, quite unlike the light touch of the wind. I can’t say I dislike it. We exchange formalities and introduce ourselves curtly, but the enthusiasm creeps back into your voice when you offer to show me around. I can barely suppress my own excitement.

I bounce as I match your steady strides. The garden really is beautiful. Enchanting. I am impressed when you tell me that you’ve grown the whole thing from an empty plot of land and a few seeds. It’s hard to decide whether or not your flowers are more wondrous than yourself. Your eyes shine with the golden warmth of the sun when you observe them. It is only too clear that you put your heart into granting your work life.

I stay in the area for weeks, attracted to the magic you perform. Your garden is filled with such vibrant colours, colours the transparent wind could not show me. I have never been anyplace as interesting or as filled with kindness. You don’t seem to mind having me around. Then, one day, I ask if I can try my hand at gardening.

You refuse. We are different, you say. While we complement each other, my white turtleneck with blue stripes to your outfit of black and yellow, that just means I am not meant for the garden. I am water, fluid and bubbly. I will surely flow away when the wind calls. But you are the earth, warm and nurturing like a comforting blanket, and you and offer what flowers need the most: stability. You smile at me, then return your attentions to your garden. I linger behind your back, admiring your dexterity as you arrange the petals of your favourite rose. I try to smile and accept your explanation, but the tears well up anyway. I don’t understand your reasoning. We are different, you say. Does that make me useless?

I do not leave, although the breezes are starting to pick up. There is no place I would rather be. At least you do not reject my presence, though you turn away my hand. The earth soon starts to lack in nutrients. Even deprived of minerals, you continue to tend to the flowers with your pale, bony hands. But there is no love in your eyes, no affection in your touch. Your children can feel the difference and are starting to dry up. Where is your heart, I wonder?

Maybe we are different. I’m not like you. Does that necessarily mean I can’t help though? That can’t be. It hurts to see you so miserable and weak. I promise I won’t be going anywhere, at least not until you get better. No more wandering – I run with a purpose now. I skid to a stop when I reach the rosebush, and kneel before the withering red rose, the one that once had the most life to it. It is almost unrecognizable now. My chest tightens. I won’t let you die. As I gently stroke the petals, I irrigate the ground with my tears.

&&&

You have almost given up, and stare up at the clouds with a forlorn expression. I wonder what you’re wishing for. You turn your head with disinterest when you see me approach, but your jaw drops slightly and your eyebrows knit together with confusion when you realize what I have with me. I hold out the healed rose, now a more brilliant shade of red than ever before, to show your disbelieving eyes.

“Look, your heart is in my hands.” And I’ll prove to you that I, too, can take care of flowers.