A Kind Of Peace
Kate Corsaro
I touched the petal of the first rose of the season. Kissed with morning dew, still cold and clear, its color was red like a fresh tube of lipstick. As the neighborhood rises from their cozy beds so does the sun, shining its beacon of light onto the flower, creating a dazzling effect from the dew. It looks like the fake, glittery fairy dust I had always hoped would change my life. Wings beating create a steady hum radiating from the brightly colored hummingbirds to my side. The flamenco red petals are soft against my dry hands.
Without looking beyond the surface, it's just a flower. But a more symbolic way of seeing the world shows how similar I am to this bud. The petal’s beauty could be ruined if I hold it the wrong way. The simplicity and beauty that calls people to it, but the sharp thorns protecting it that cut and hurt like awkward first conversations. The cold dew and bright petals cover the inside like a mask, distorting the image and further separating what people see and what is really inside. Distracting them from reality. The color attracts pollinators, without them the plant wouldn’t be pollinated and would die. But without the color humans wouldn’t pick them and take the plant’s light and reason to live. Either way, it results in death.
When my grandfather’s flower was picked out of the garden of life, it gave my grandmother’s plant no reason to live. She too was soon plucked. At least they are now in the same vase, together once again.
I think each family represents a different flower. Though some, are a mixed pack of seeds. Each one unique and a surprise. My family is like that. My grandparents were very different but loved each other for their special petals instead of overlooking them because they weren’t the perfect match. If anything, their differences helped them grow closer together.
My sister is like a poppy. She’s bright with a wild side and has nothing to hide. She gives her opinions to whoever will stop and listen, no matter who she's talking to. She opens herself up to anyone who is willing to talk and brings a little bit of color to the world.
Our mom is more like a fruit tree, with small pink flowers like the comforting freckles on her face. She teaches the world and gives kids the sweetness of learning in her fruit of knowledge. She has a thick trunk of memories and experiences to support her. It grows every day, adding new rings, not of age, but of wisdom.
My dad roughly resembles a tulip. A little more reserved than others, but not in a bad way. He’s artsier than most but chooses to silently use his talents instead of boasting about them or posting a million photos on social media.
As for myself, I haven’t truly discovered what or who I am yet. Possibly a rose. They have always been one of my favorites. But then again so have poppies, tulips, and plumb trees. I think they’re my favorites because they feel familiar and represent the family I love so much.
As I stand up and let go of the rose, I smile and walk to the wooden swing hanging inside the branches of our weeping willow. It’s my favorite hiding spot. Not to hide from my fears, not from drama, not even from my parents. I come here to hide from the fast-paced world. Sitting here, on the swing in my own little hideaway, I watch as the world keeps spinning around me. But here in my garden, I have found a kind of peace that no one will ever understand until they have found their own. I am grateful for the rose, the willow, and the swing. Together they cradle and caress me in their open arms.
