1 Weeds Are Flowers, Too. By Rebecca Harville
There was once a house on the corner of the street. It stood-out out of all of them because, one, it was the oldest on the street and, two, didn’t look like the others. It looked more like a cottage than an actual house one would find in the suburbs. It was a cozy house with MindYour-Own-Businesses growing inbetween the cracks of the walkway instead of a big and spacious one. That was one the reasons the women who lived there liked it so much. It was whimsical just as much as she is. It was one of the things about her that her husband always loved. This is also the house she bought after he left her. The woman was tired of reading the book she would never be able to finish. She needed something to do. “But what?” she thought while there were chores she kept meaning to do all around the house. She looked around. The dishes in the sink were a mile high. She could’ve just stuck them in the dishwasher if it wasn’t broken. “Dishes it is then,” she said with a sigh, not wanting to look at the other things she needs to do. She unclogged the sink, turned on the water, and waited. The water needed to be near boiling hot if she was going do this, and her thought process for that was that maybe burning her hand or rubbing it raw would get her to call the person needed to in order to get the dishwasher fixed quicker. Knowing her, even that wouldn’t work. While waiting for the water to heat, she looked through the window that’s above her sink. From what she could see with the house across the street being in perfect view, Mrs. Jenkins was weeding her garden again. She didn’t hold back when it came to that task or any task for that matter unlike the woman.
2 However, the woman wasn’t good at gardening given the multiple times she tried and failed. Her husband used to say in order to comfort her, “You just care too much for the plants and the weeds that you forget that weeds and plants are like water and oil sometimes.” Her boy looks just like her husband. Acts like him too. A year or so back, she would never know where he is especially whenever she took him with her to the grocery store—she usually finds him in the toy section. She’s just learned to deal with not always knowing where he is. Then, her husband died. After that, her son barely left her side. Just today, she had to force him to go play with the boys on the street. Looking back at Mrs. Jenkins, she remembered the girl she used to be.
She had been in what could’ve been the first grade. Her mother had taken her to the park. It had been a lovely day that day, and all she had wanted to do was play in the sandbox. She had even brought a bucket to try to make sandcastles. Sitting in the box, she had let the sand run through her hands. The little grains of sand went one by one and then all at once passed her little stubby fingers. She had even sunk her hands deep into the sand where it blended in with the cold wet ground, laid down, and moved her fingers around—she had later got in trouble for letting sand into her hair. Until she hadn’t felt the sun in quite some time. It had been because of a boy. A snot-nosed, cootie riddled boy—her least favorite kind.
3 “I think you really pretty,” he had rushed while shoving his hand from behind his back and along with a bouquet of weeds. The bouquet was a nice thought but was truly ugly—all green steams with no actual flower. That made her pissed. “How dare he give me these ugly flowers!” she had thought, so she had screamed. “You are so weird. What are these? They’re not flowers. Look no…” At this point she couldn’t remember the word petals. “Whatever that stuff is. Do you know what this stuff is? Ugly. Just like your face. I don’t want this. What made you think I would want something from someone as ugly as you? Butt face!” After leaving the boy alone for him to cry, she had stomped to the swings to grumble to herself. The boy had messed with her “me time.” When someone messes with that—no matter how old she is, she will get as crabby as she gets when she’s wearing clothes and a little damp which one time she nearly bit a guy’s ear off when she was in that state. However, when the boy came back, his blotchy face had been holding unshed tears in, and his lip quivered as he said, “Weeds are flowers, too.” And he walked away. She had never got to apologize to him that day given he left right after, but she remembered his words, “Weeds are flowers, too.”
She had always loved the summer, especially during the summers in between her middle school years. She had spent those year with her grandparents, outside of her their house helping her grandmother with her garden and picking out some of the ripest tomatoes. Nothing could beat the summer heat in those days. The way her shirt clung to her back was a feeling unlike any
4 other. It had made her appreciate the coldness of the soil the tomatoes she would pluck were planted in. Maybe, she had appreciated it too much. Her grandmother had always nagged at her for not paying attention to plants right in front of her so much so that her grandmother had to just put her on picking duty. That also could have had been the fact that her grandmother no matter what go back to the young woman’s work and fix it. The whirling of the lawnmower sounded before her. Her grandfather had thought that the people who would drive past their little country house must have been impressed with the neat and tidy lawn. He had been conceited in that way. He had always been mowing the lawn during the time her grandmother told her to start to pick at the tomatoes—probably her grandmother’s doing. As much as she loved caring for the plants, she had hated the sound of the lawnmower. It had been too loud for her ears. She had looked up in order to tell her grandfather she couldn’t take it anymore when she saw her grandfather over by the front of the lawn near the ditch close to the road. That was where the weeds mainly were. The type of weeds that looked like a little daisy. The ones that had tiny white petals with a small button-like yellow fuzz in the middle of the flower. She had later learned that that weed’s common name is the Daisy weed. Fitting. There had also been a lot of Yorkshire Fog Weeds—those were the ones that looked like something a cow-boy would chew on. All she had thought as her grandfather mowed right over those weeds was, “Weeds are flowers, too.”
5 The cold fall nights she had endured when she was in her high school marching band had been something. Being out on different football fields trying to shake off the cold while waiting for their placement had been one of the best times of her life. Her band directors had made all of her fellow colorguardsmen strip off their jackets in order to show off their absolutely hideous costumes—that particular year they were supposed to look like aliens, which her band directors had given them some kind of fabric that looked like tinfoil nearly felt like it too. As they had stood there, her bandmates and her had marveled at the fact that they had made it to the state finials. They had waited when fifth place was called out. When that had happened, everyone in her band had thought that they weren’t going to go home with a trophy that night. It had seemed inevitable that if they weren’t getting fifth place then they weren’t going to be placed. Fourth place had come and went. Then, so had third place. And second. The announcer had taken a pause inbetween second and first just like they had always done. They had won first place. Cheers had come from all around. Her bandmates had been hugging each other. Some of them had even been crying. Her best friend at the time had whispered while looking at the bestlooking man in the band cry, “He even looks beautiful when he cries. How is that possible?” She had been working her way through hugging people when one of the band directors had decided it was time to pack up and to head back the way they came. Her colorguard captain had yelled for her members not to forget to put their flags back where they came from. The
6 young woman had raced to make sure she had put her flags in with the percussion. She had been coming back for the trailer where they put all the noncarriable instruments when she’s crossed paths with a dandelion. It was a small dandelion with all of the seed heads in it. She’d kneeled down and plucked it, planning on blowing on it and making a wish like when she would see one during band practice whenever her moves hadn’t been created, and she had to be in one spot for that entire practice. In the corner of her eye, she had seen a girl her age. The girl, she noticed, had been in the losing band. This girl had been walking towards her. The young woman had felt a little nervous at this point, thinking that this girl had walked over to criticize her performance or the band’s. The girl had been the definition of beautiful, reminding the young woman of an elf from the Lord of the Rings or anything else Tolkien had written from that universe. Once the girl had gotten close enough to the young woman to speak, she had said, “You did really well.” “Thank you,” the young woman had replied. She had looked down at her hands, seeing the dandelion perfect for wishing, and had handed it to the girl. “Here’s a dandelion. Make a wish.” When the girl had taken the flower and thanked her, the young woman’s brain had broken down just a bit and said, “You know, weeds are flowers, too.”
She had looked like a beautiful bride on the day of her wedding—all glowy and bright with a wide dazzling smile at every turn. She loved her husband—or at this point husband-to-be —and vice versa. He had been kind and strong throughout the entirety of their relationship— until years later when he had been diagnosed with cancer. He had loved her deep black skin and
7 frizzy, curly hair, and he didn’t even bat an eye when she told him she liked the same sex as well as the opposite. He had been her perfect match. Her bridesmaids had been running rampant, gossiping about the groomsmen arguing which one is the most attractive. Then, a groomsman had walked into the room, making her stand. “Had something gone wrong?” she had wondered as the man had handed her a letter and left. Once she had opened the letter, she’d seen that it contained a yellow Dandy weed. She had smiled and laughed as she had twirled the little weed inbetween her thumb and forefinger. Then, she had looked toward her bouquet. Something wrong had settled in her stomach. It had been a lovely bouquet of yellow tulips and white orchids. The bouquet hadn’t given her the feeling of joy as much as the Dandy weed had. “Time to go,” one of the bridesmaids had said. “Time for that lovely bride to get married.” Walking up to the chapel with her bridesmaids in front of her, she had stopped for a moment just to keep her memory fresh in her mind. She had wanted to see if the outside of the chapel would look the same by the time she had left it a married woman—it did but didn’t when it was time for his funeral. She had looked around and had seen the yellow Dandy weeds he had sent along with some Pearlworts. She had then started to pluck away at the weeds, adding them to her bouquet. Her bridesmaids had been shocked—well, some of the ones she had asked solely because they were a part of her husband’s family—and had asked her if she was mad.
8 She hadn’t cared. When her husband had smiled while mentioning it, all she had to say was, “Weeds are flowers, too.” Then, they would both smile, looking like they were sharing a secret nobody was getting.
The pit-pattering of little feet made her stop washing the dishes. A mop of hair passed the kitchen corner. Smiling, she squatted down to be on a similar level with that little mop of hair. Her smile faded when she sees the tearful expression on her boy’s face with his hands behind his back. He was barely seven years-old. She cooed as she brushes the tear stains off his face and asked him what’s wrong. “Did one of the boys on the street call you a bad name?” “No,” He said looking down, whipping out his hands, “Well, I was pickin’ you these flowers, but Mrs. Jenkins across the street told me that they’re not flowers.” The woman looked down, and there were weeds clutched in his hands. She knew she was going to have to have a long talk with Mrs. Jenkins. Sadly smiling at her boy’s discomfort, she looked down at the weeds. “Sweetheart, these are called weeds,” she told him then squeezed his nose, “but you know what, weeds are flowers, too.” He smiled and said, “Yeah, they are.”