Fiction


My Happy Spot


Photo Credit: Canadian Stories
Every year the same activity in the same spot. Just growing and blooming, a few feet away from the fence with lots of open space all around. Still, itís as good a place as any I guess. I am happy here.

The soil is soft enough for the tiniest root tendrils to grow unhindered and there are lots of worms, keeping it well aerated and providing fertilizer for nourishment.

In spring my new shoots are among the first to break through the soil, relishing the daylight and steadily increasing warmth of the sun. The rain, when it falls, is cold but the moisture encourages further growth. By springís end I have reached a height of about thirty inches or so and delicate little flower buds have begun to form.

By mid-summer I have produced clusters of beautiful, lacy white blooms and I enjoy having people stop to smell their fragrance. Basking in the heat of the sun, the warmth flows from the tips of my leaves down to the ends of my roots. The night temperature is cooler and more comfortable for resting.

In daytime I listen to the birds singing in the nearby trees, the squeals and laughter of children at play, voices in conversation and sometimes I hear laundry on the clothesline in the next yard flapping in the wind. Sometimes a light, cooling breeze flows caressingly through my leaves. At other times I am buffeted by strong winds that batter and twist my little limbs in painful cotortions. Thatís when I get covered with dust while some of my flowers and leaves are torn from me. But itís not all bad for there are days when I feel the welcome cleansing moisture of a heavy mist or a soft, light rain.

From time to time there are other disturbances in my otherwise peaceful existence. Several days ago, one of my flower clusters was gentlly plucked by the hands of a little girl as a gift for her grandmother who was recovering from a tumble. And while I donít like having my beauty stripped away, it felt good to think that some part of me might bring a little happiness to someone who was hurting. After last weekís storm, a young boy rescued several flower clusters that had been torn from me and ran away. A sparrow told me later that he presented them to his mother, who put them in a pretty vase of water on the dining room table for everyone who came in to enjoy. Now, I ask you, how could I not be pleased with such things?

By autumn my flowers have turned to seed and fallen to the ground or been spread by the wind, although the birds will probably eat some. As the weather turns colder I will lose strength, finally slumping to the ground. I will be covered by Mother Natureís soft, white blanket and sleep through the winter. Next year the cycle will begin again Ė right here in my happy spot.

© 2017, Fay Herridge
Canadian Stories, Oct/Nov 2017 (92nd Photo Story Contest)

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