For this month’s flower moon, I am posting a short story I wrote a while back reflecting the sentiments of the human existence in our dystopian times.

Follow the Green Path

She lost her mother at the flea market.

She was seven years old, the flea market was miles long, her mother had always warned her to stay close, the drones overhead whirred loudly and threateningly, and she'd lost her mother all because she'd seen a flower bushel fallen from a basket.

Flowers were hard to come by. Plants in general were outlawed except for mass production by corporations. But someone had purchased jasmine and irises at one of the stalls and must have dropped a fresh, miniature bushel of flowers. All plants were so extensively gmo'ed now that their scents were exceedingly pungent, and a little girl, whose nose was closer to the ground and whose eyes were always glued to it, could easily stumble across a bushel of jasmine and irises on the grimy streets of the market. As soon as she picked up the bushel and turned around, her mother was nowhere to be found.

Somehow, she was not afraid. She could hear the flower whispering to her, "don't let me go! Don't let me go, and I will lead you to your mother." 

She was not sure how a bushel of flowers would have any idea where a frail woman could be in the midst of thousands upon thousands of people, but at this point, she had no other choice. As though in a trance, Nellie followed the flowers' instructions towards the green path. Aside from sold produce, there were few colorful things, much less green things, still existent today. Most of their clothes were grey and brown, their purses and bags brown and black, their skins also dusted. Nonetheless, Nellie caught hints of a green hair wrap here, a green coin pouch there, and towards each of them she skittered.

The bushel led her out of the market, past the rubbled plains and into the formations of stone that surrounded their valley. Still, she was not afraid. Unbeknownst to her, the ruins of wood and brick she traipsed through were once homes and shops and cities. Step by step she trotted, unbothered by the desolation, for hours it seemed. The sun was no longer above and the breeze had cooled and no longer could she hear the commotion of the enormous, singular market that the government permitted to occur only four times a year -- at the turn of each season.

Nellie's mother, Ava, sold fabrics at the market for the first few days, and then would spend the last couple purchasing the food they'd need for the next couple of months. Ava was a sad, sweet lady, always wide-eyed and cowering. They had no other family, although every now and then they'd be housed by a kind couple here and there.

Nellie wondered why it is that her mother had left the market early and why she had come all the way out here. Around a bend, through a rock formation, she came upon her destination, according to the flowers. It was a crescent of stones, open to the wastelands beyond. The structure of a house lay fallen to the side. In the distance she could barely see mountains behind clouds of dust and growing sandstorms.

She put the bushel up to her nose and sniffed. 

"Behind the house," it told her. Nellie walked the inner circumference of the stone crescent, past the ruins and behind the charred wood. Five upright stones protruded from the ground, broken and dirty. Nellie sat in front of them, facing the center of the crescent space. For a while she sat pondering, waiting for the flower to speak again, wondering where her mother could be. Should she wait for her here?

"Look at them from the other side," the bushel whispered after a time. Nellie cautiously picked herself up and flattened her clothes, and tiptoed around the stones.

Clearly etched, although filled with grime and dust, she read upon the stones in order from left to right: Louis, Petra, Ava, Cole, and Nellie. There were numbers under the names, but Nellie paid no mind to them. She didn't understand who these names belonged to, and why they were the same as her's and her mother's.

A gust of wind blew and, her hand slack, the bushel slipped from her fingers and into the breeze. Footsteps sounded from the stone passage from where she'd come.

Ava leaned around the bend with a tired smile and bags hanging from both limbs and around her waist.

"What are you doing out here by yourself, Nellie dear?

All thoughts of the flowers left her and she sprinted to her mom.

"I thought I lost you!" She folded herself into her mother's skirt, sending dust into the air in swirls.

Her mother held the back of her head saying, "Never, dear. We'll never lose each other."

And they continued on.

The May Full Moon: Flower Moon

Both Henry David Thoreau and Jonathan Carver wrote publications about the Native American-named flower moon, evidently due to the fact that May brings us the gift of flowers all across the country. (Source: Old Farmer’s Almanac)

April Showers bring May Flowers, they say! Check out the below sketch for a sticker/t-shirt idea I have featuring our garden beds in the background!