Among the Bed of Flowers

by Caroline Harris

She rose as a sproutling in the garden bed. Birthed from the dirt, and rain and sun—or so the believed. The baby’s screams rang inside the small house and a woman, now a mother, rushed from inside to stand before her newly sprouted flowers, surprised at the sight of a dirt-covered baby with a small bloom of white babies breath tucked behind her little ear.

The mother scooped the child up into her arms, cradling the baby girl’s soft head that smelled like violets. Screams diminished to whimpers and morphed into coos as the child snuggled into the mother’s arms. She figured someone must have dropped her off, given her up, for there was no logic behind the growth of a child in her garden bed. She’d planted those spring buds a few days ago, and there was nothing unusual about the seeds. So, she brought the child inside and named her Flora.

Day by day Flora grew and with her longer legs and her thicker hair there came more and more flowers. The puff of baby’s breath was still tucked behind her ear, but next came the roses, then the daisies, the lavender, the peonies, and violets. The petals cascaded down and around the child’s shoulders and grew atop her head like a crown.

The mother had tried to snip off the overgrowth, the new buds still forming, but Flora would scream in so loud an octave she would put the scissors away and primp the flowers decorating her daughter instead.

After a month, Flora had grown so tall she reached her mother’s waist. Her hair was a shade of auburn orange, long and twisted, and freckles dashed across her rosy cheeks. To no surprise, more blooms continued to grow, cascading down her child’s arms and legs. Twisting vines of ivy, bluebells scattered between Flora’s fingers. There were bleeding hearts wrapped up around her legs and poppies littering the locks of her hair.

The mother had grown unabashed at her daughter’s unique traits. The townspeople had more than enough to say on the matter, but in her own opinion, Flora was the most beautiful child there ever was. It was only ever her solemn thought at how fast Flora continued to grow. In just over two months, Flora was the same heights as the mother, her youthful cheeks and still rose red and her hair longer than ever. But the mother wondered how long this would last.

Spring slowly settled into summer. Days stretched long and the sunshine filled their days with laughter and love. Flora’s mother would braid her hair with the flowers that continued to grow. Flora would sing familiar melodies as they trudged up the flower beds in front of the house. The mother couldn’t believe that Flora had sprouted here only a few months ago.

But the happiness only lasted until the trees began to change color. Green leaves shifted to yellow, red, orange, and Flora began to feel awfully tired. Her mother no longer heard her tinkling laughter inside the house, and the woven flowers grown along Flora’s body ceased to grow. Instead, the lavender lost its smell, the roses began to wilt, and the ivy slowly uncurled from Flora’s legs.

Cool winds swept into the small house and the mother wept as she watched the color drain from Flora’s cheeks. There was so little time left and the mother didn’t know what to say. But Flora took her mother’s hand. Her skin was cold to the touch. She whispered to her mother to bury her in her birthplace and all will grow a new. Flora’s chest ceased to move. Her hand fell limp, and the mother screamed at the loss of her daughter, taken from her too fast.

Days filled the mother’s aching heart and tears stained her cheeks as blush used to stain Flora’s. A cavity had formed in her heart for Flora was there one minute and gone the next. And Despite her sorrow, she had heard her daughter’s final wish.

The mother spent her morning digging. Dirt piled high, dead flowers pulled from the bed where Flora had been brought to her. The sun arched high in the blue sky only to fall hours later, and finally, the mother carried out her daughter, weightless in death. She rested her porcelain skin against the soft darkness of the dirt.

The flowers that once radiated with life now hung brown and crisp, petals drooping in colorless absence. The mother took one last look at her daughter, peaceful in rest, for that is what the mother wished for her. She primped Flora’s flowers in a way in which she knew she would like. Her daughter always giggled when her mother touched the blooms that had sprouted from her body.

The mother packed the garden bed, covering Flora from head to toe. She bent her head and said a few words only she would know and embrace the short memories she had had with the daughter she’d never expected.

With the loss of Flora, winter arrived in a full flesh of white powdered snow. It covered everything it touched with an added chill, and the mother began to gaze from her window, down at the covered flowerbed where her daughter laid. She wondered if she was cold, or lonely, or if she could feel anything at all. Flurried rained down in slanted lines for months on end. The mother began to free the flowerbed of snow after each night, for she didn’t want Flora to feel trapped or numb beneath the blanket of white.

There were moments, when time pushed towards the end of the snow, the end of the cold, when the greens of grass would peak up from dreariness. When the bushes and trees would begin to sprout small bits of hope from beneath the ground, as if this winter they were only sleeping. It was in those little moments of hope the mother found herself watering the bed where her daughter rested, for she was sure her daughter would return to her come springtime.

Caroline Harris is from Powell, Ohio, and is currently living in Chicago. She is working as a writing instructor and full-time graduate student in Fiction writing at Columbia College Chicago and is a lover of all things books and writing. She tends to get lost within the stacks and spends hours wandering the aisles of her local bookstore. She has been previously published in ioLiterary, Sondor Midwest, and The Helix Magazine.