It was her favorite flower when she was fourteen. Or maybe she like daisies more. I can’t remember now. That was so long ago. Another time. Over half my life ago.
Has that much time really passed? I guess so. We’re not children anymore. I suppose we should be adults, but I still think of myself as the awkward fifteen-year-old unsure of her place in the world. Does she still feel the same, too? The wanna-be flower child hippie crushing on all the boys, desperate for all the wrong kids of attention. What did she think of her wallflower sister more afraid of the world around her than she could express in words at that age? Sunflowers and daisies were too happy for her disposition, darkened by teenage angst. The anti-rebel, shunning drugs, cigarettes, and sex – the vices that attracted other youth like flies. Bruised irises and black tulips were more her style.
We couldn’t have been more different, and yet each of us wished for social acceptance in our own way. I was just more quiet about it. Less obvious.
Are we still the same? Hard to say. We barely know each other now. Almost fifteen years absent from each other’s lives. Maybe it was better that way, being separated so young. Gave us a chance to figure out ourselves with no interruptions from the other half, who only wanted to tear her sister down. Both just as bad as the other.
The other. The sunflower. And the bruised iris, hunched quietly in the corner, waiting for the thunderstorms to pass. Which they did. The worst of them, at least.
I’m all the more strong for the heavy winds and pelting rains. But I can’t say the same for her. She seemed more wilted the last time we crossed paths. Not as sunny, maybe more plastic than she was before, like those artificial sunflowers rednecks stick in their front yards when they want to pretend something natural has grown.
– Written by Miss A on November 2, 2011