Devonne Brown

Mothers run a desperate zoo. That’s why we plant flowers. I have a flat and a half of red, fuschia, and orange impatiens on my back  porch waiting to dot the ground with their hues. My mom planted flowers, her mom planted flowers, and that’s how she died, weeding her Touch-Me-Nots. Grounds beautification 101, we have to make our worlds better in thought, word, and deed, said the scouts. Flowers are the way forward.

We can plant,  predict, and protect.  Color our seasons. Virgie, my grandmother, embroidered flowers all year, not just in the summer it was how she colored her world. Her tiny world. Her brain craved color and beauty beyond dinner and children. All five of them. Cultivate annuals to highlight the special perennials thrown in for grounding purposes. 

I saw my world through different eyes. The other day, my incredibly successful, much younger cousin, a new generation, visited my house with her children. I couldn’t help but compare my West Virginia home to her million dollar mansion in a movie star neighborhood while I entertained and fed her smart kids, her zoo. I was embarrassed by my circumstances. My flowers weren’t in the ground. There was nothing on the ground but the deadfall marking the paths, nothing of color to highlight the ways to walk. It looked bleak and disorganized. Sadness surrounded by a ruffled fence.

My zoo is grown and out of touch with my reality, even the one who lives with me doesn’t get it, although he’s picked up his room since he’s gotten a girlfriend. Maybe he’ll do some weed whacking around the flowers when they get planted, too. He spends a good amount of time on the back porch.

School is about done for the season. Maybe I’m just tired and looking at things wrong at the moment. I’ve got to get those flowers in the ground, They can’t spread and grow otherwise.