Hummingbirds often thrummed with sugary beaks, tasting the sweet nectar brought forth by the rain, entranced with the season’s homely grasp. I could not find myself, as I was lost in someone else. I was but an empty body in the garden, yet somehow found myself looking around, taking it in. The ghosts of my troubles escaped me, unraveled the roses until their petals coated the dirt—vermilion remnants decorating the cold, brown soil. Morning glory crept upward along the side of the house over the years. At last, they reached the window, blossoming flowers along the sill—sweet-scented and lively. The marigolds below sighed—with the same warmth that colored them—into my hollowed lungs. I could breathe again, only to be captivated by the handsome, dark strawberry avens. Their saucer-like petals doubled over themselves around their yellow-freckled centers, offering hearts to the flitting hummingbirds.
There was a great oak in the far corner whose branches stretched into the sky. Its leaves were tiny hands reaching out to gather up the sun, as if to deliver its light to the petunias caught in the oak’s penumbra. Their flushed color appeared endless like the stars still beaming, though their lights’ homes are but a carcasses of dust.
The heavens continued to unfold, enveloping my soul, pledged to a heart wrung with hunger for the sky’s kindred spirit. I was unaware I closed my eyes until I had to open them to see, and when I did I noticed a single white petunia alone in the middle of all the others. I picked it from the soil. So pure and white, I plucked its milky petals, sending them flying with the calling breeze—relieving perfection of the pressure of a world trapped in blindness. When the last petal flew from my fingertips I felt faithful despite my stagnant doubt. I finally felt full and alive. I grew familiar with the garden, and thus with myself.