— Flowers — — — Oleander - danger Magnolia - love of nature Daisy - innocence — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — Daisy, daisy, daisies. The meadow is filled with daisies, their vibrant brightness lighting up the meadow. Snow-colored petals dance. Thousands of thin stems sway, snakes charmed by the wind. She’s standing in the middle of the flowers, just watching, watching and waiting. Her brunette hair flutters just a bit, like butterflies too hesitant to take flight. The wind seems to murmur her name in her ear—Magnolia, Magnolia, Magnolia. Magnolia: an alien sound uttered by a foreign tongue. She’s always been Just Maggie. She hears the quiet rushing of the steam, too. Calming and peaceful—blue sky reflected onto the glassy waters. She watches in wonder as bees take flight, buzzing and zipping about. She’s sixteen: not the sixteen that means you can drive and go up another grade, but the sixteen that’s free and wild and doesn’t need to answer to anyone else. Grass is soft against her feet. It tickles her ankles as she moves barefoot through the grass, but lightly, careful not to accidentally snap a stem. She recognizes some of them; nearly all of them are weeds. She never liked the word ‘weeds’ —it was a judgment, the term always partnering with a tone or disgust of annoyance. Weeds were persistent. They could grow anywhere, and you could cut them down all you wanted, they would spring back up next year. She hopes that if she’s ever a flower, it’ll be a weed. A brilliant pink speck makes her stop and crouch. She cautiously picks up the flower, hearing the quiet snap as she detaches it from its stem. Oleander. The flower is oleander, she thinks. She’s caught up in the delicate petals and intricate details. Her eyes search every part of the flower, trying to memorize it, scan it into her mind to keep forever. It reminds her of her mother. And she’s forgotten the steam, and she’s falling. Falling, falling, Falling. Falling in the empty air, falling in the rushing waves, falling in the lulling current. It swirls around her, promising comfort. Promising peace. She never did learn how to swim. Her vision begins to darken. Is she falling asleep? A shimmering glitter flicks in her vision and she wonders if it's a fairy, because she’s the sixteen that hasn’t been molded by growing up and still believes in fairies. And then she’s at peace. Because she is forever in nature, forever sixteen, and forever Just Maggie.
