The Magic of Flowers
AN: I was supposed to write something connected to my past entry but it didn't work out so well. I wrote this instead. The prompt was Germinate, it was written for the writing contest community brigits_flame.
My mother used to have a little flower garden at the back of our house. She could make anything grow, whether it was tulips or roses or sunflowers. It was magical to a little girl like me to see how a lifeless, plain seed could bloom into something so vibrant and alive; to watch something get buried only for it to spring out in a burst of life.
Naturally, I wanted to try it out for myself. I’d take a seed from my mother’s stores, find a nice empty plot of soil, and then I’d bury it with the help of my trusty toy spade. But no matter how meticulously I watched these seeds, no matter how rich the soil or abundant the water I nourished them with was, they simply refused to come alive.
After spending all my childhood failing to make a single flower bloom, I gave it up altogether. I realized that there was nothing magical about the metamorphosis of seeds into flowers at all.
There was nothing special about how that little seedling pops out of the dark, compact ground or the way a tiny little bud opens up to become an array of the most colorful petals. It was biology, simple as that.
But for some reason, every spring, I still catch myself looking at the flowers. Sometimes, I stare at them for as long as half an hour without even realizing. As silly as it is, I think a part of me still wants to believe in their magic. It's small part, for sure. But then again, even the smallest, deadest seeds grow into the most lively of blossoms.