I was planted in her garden. A piece of land so vast. Even for its size and magnitude, I grew outstandingly well. She placed me in her garden near the lavender field when I was nothing but a useless weed. With the smell of her fragile purple plants near by and the dark brown soil at my roots, I grew more and more each day.
Watching her take care for her many plants, she seemed to float when she moved. I loved how she would only take care of me as the sun went down and it got dark. It was like the darkness of the sky and the silence was our time to be together.
One by one she would turn my leaves over. She was looking for bugs that were no longer feasting off of me because they had died; dead bugs to add to her collection for a long awaited art piece.
Separating myself and the field of lavender was a concrete stool. It's shape similar to that of a mushroom. Though it was made of concrete she had painted over it. Many colors. Some accidentally mixed other purposely. The paint was wearing off from years of harsh weather and rain and how often she sat on there. It was a beautiful disaster but it was nothing but hers.
Her garden was my home, but the white brick wall behind me was like my own room. Everlyn few days, she took a small sea shell filled with green paint to match my leaves, she marked where I had grown more. Along with a small dash, she wrote the date. The way she painted on my wall, her wall, with movements like silk, made my leaves rustle gently.
On the sixth month of the year, and the sixth day of the month, and the year 2016, she came to me again. I'd grown more than she expected. She brought her stool close to my wall. With a paint brush in her hair and a shell full of paint, being cradled in place by my leaves and vines, she stepped up. Wearing tall black boots she rose up to her tip toes and marked where I had grown. She slowly went back down to her heels as she started at me pressed against the wall. She wasn't speaking, so I had no clue as to what was on her mind. She sat down with a sigh and took off her boots, setting them neatly by her stool. She stepped back up and with both hands, tugged harshly on my vines. She nodded in satisfaction because she knew they were strong because of her.
She placed a bare foot in my vines and hoisted her self up with her hands. Slowly she climbed up to the top of the white, brick wall. Twisting her feet and body, she sat on the top of the wall. Pulling a small notepad from the pocket of her dress, she began to make paper planes and birds. She dropped the birds and watched them float down to the ground. She threw the planes. Practicing the way she threw them to try and get them to come back to her.
The last one she threw, was coming back. Just in arms reach. She underestimated the distance and leaned forward to much. With her feet still twisted in my vines, she fell forward. You could hear it. The sound of her skull breaking as she hit the wall, with vines still twisted around her feet. She hung there, upside down and facing the wall. Her long braid swaying slowly until it stopped. Stuck in her braid...was the paper plane she tried to reach for. She knew very well, that somethings that you want, have negative results.
Green was the last thing she saw. And the texture of paper was the last thing she felt.