Hydrangea macrophylla serrata, Mackenzie Hyatt

When I finally meet you, perhaps I will call you my hydrangea, and promise that I will give you all of the water you desire and I will keep you in the sun for as long as I can and watch you when the sun leaves and while you sleep, warding off the deer who might snack on your stems. And I will feed you fruit above all, and you will delight in the colors of them, and I might blanket them in sugar as a treat. And, with any fortune, you will be my macrophylla, my mophead. Your hair will explode like a sunburst atop your sweet head, and you will be annoyed by its untamability, but lucky for you, it will not hang limply like mine, and you will not get bored of it. But you will get bored of me. I think that you will, but even if you do, I won’t get bored of you. Not ever. And I will remind you what Hydrangea means: to the Greeks, it meant water barrel, the same one you could no doubt fill with the tears that will come when you scrape your knee (because you will inherit my sensitivity) but I will tell you it simply means that your heart is full, and I will refill your barrel anytime you need it.

If I overwater you, please forgive me.