Her first breath of air was sharp and cold, but it soon became a rhythmic soothing sensation. Gardener tilted a tin with poked holes in it over her, and she bathed in the droplets of water.
“Hello there, little one.” he said.
“Hello. Who are you?” she looked up at him from her little mound of dirt.
“I am Gardener. And you are Flower.”
“Flower…?”
Gardener nodded with a smile. “That is your name.”
The Gardener padded the earth surrounding her, and when he was satisfied that her terra firma was established, and that she would not be easily pulled, he went away to attend other parts of the field. Flower looked around her, and saw that little green blades were beginning to protrude from the ground, just as she had. Everything was so new to her, and after asking the blades what they were, found that they were called ‘grass’. Some ignored her, but others were more than happy to explain where she was. The older grasses called this place the garden, and it was the Gardener who tended to all of them. She wasn’t very tall, and some grasses were taller than she was, so she could not see how far the garden stretched.
When the Blazing Fireball above disappeared, Gardener came to her to say “Goodnight, Flower.”
“Goodnight.”
But Flower could not sleep. Many little fireballs had emerged to scatter above, though none of them seemed powerful enough to match Blazing Fireball in lighting the sky. Hard as they tried, they were too tiny.
Before long, she had managed to be friends with all the plants around her. Grasses were easy to please as long as you complimented on how green and healthy they looked. Everyday, she would tell Gardener of who she spoke to, and he would admire how much she had grown. Each night was equally sleepless, for while Flower admired Blazing Fireball, she pitied little fireballs. They tried so hard every time.
“Why are you called Flower?” asked a little grass one day.
“Gardener gave it to me.” she proclaimed proudly.
“That’s funny. Mummy says flowers are beautiful colourful things. You’re only green, like us. Abit taller, but you look funny.”
Flower looked at her sides. She was not as slender as grasses, and she did look green all over. There were no colours other than that.
Gardener tipped his can over her, and noticed that she did not readily embrace the droplets this time as she usually did. “What is wrong, Flower?” he asked gently, and went closer. “You named me Flower, yet I am not a flower. I am neither colourful nor beautiful. Just green and plain.” She began to cry.
“Oh but you are a flower. You are beautiful. Just you wait. A colour you will show, and petals will bloom from your head. You’ll be special.”
“But why did you name me Flower even before? I am still plain.”
“I knew you were a flower from the beginning. It’s not what you are, Flower, that gave you your name. It’s what you will be, and always were.” His smile shined brighter to her than Blazing Fireball above.
Flower stopped pouting, and tried not to be sad.
True enough, over the weeks, Flower only grew taller, and soon a bud began to emerge from the tip of her head. Its colours so striking, she proudly showed it to every plant around her, and bathed in the grasses’ praise. “Hello, Garderner!” she shouted as he passed by with his hand-spade.
“Well look at you!” he laughed.
“How did you know?” she asked from below.
“I have seen a flower. She began just like you.” With that, he padded her soil and began his work as usual. Blazing fireball began to get hotter, and little fireballs tried less hard and longer than they used to. Every night, she prayed for them not to give up. Yet she was also beginning to outgrow every grass around her. Maybe now, she will soon see other flowers just like her past the grasses. Just like her.
But there were none. All she saw when she had finally overtaken the last grass, was grass. A sea of green, and the only different colour laid on top of her head. She was the only flower.
One night, a strong wind almost uprooted her. She had never felt so much pain. Her cries caught Gardener’s attention, and he quickly built a little plastic tent around her. Unsatisfied, he kept a close watch until the winds had passed. For him she felt a loving affection, not because he was a Gardener, but because he was hers.
The petals above her head were finally in full bloom, and again the grasses praised her. She had never looked so beautiful. And never again will she.
Blazing Fireball’s heat began to simmer, and the air got colder with each passing day. She shivered in the night, curling her leaves, too occupied to notice that little fireballs above were still trying. As each day got colder, she began to worry, and soon enough a petal had dropped. It was painful to watch, but somehow, Flower knew what was coming.
A sniffled cry could be heard one day, and it was too loud for any grass to make. She turned left and right, but saw no one. “Is that you, Gardener?” she asked the open air, half stuttering.
Gardener emerged, and bent down to look at her. “Hello, Flower.” he said.
“Why are you crying?” she asked.
“You are dying, Flower, and there will be nothing that I can do,” Gardener cried.
“Please don’t cry.” She wanted to touch him, but she couldn’t. Little flowers could only reach so far. “I’ve had a happy life, because of you. Thank You, Gardener. Thank you. I have been fortunate enough to be the only flower in your garden. I could never repay you.”
“Have I done right by you, Flower?”
“Everything I ever needed or wanted.” she smiled weakly.
Over the next few days, as Flower got weaker, she noticed that the little fireballs were trying harder and longer than they ever had before. Sooner or later, they would become as big as Blazing Fireball. She believed they would. Dead leaves had fallen from the sky, and every grass laughed as they all showed off their own golden flower on top of their heads. It would be in one cold morning that Flower passed, but she would never know when. Her sleep had taken her, and spared her life from ever knowing the harsh coldness of winter.
Months would pass, snow turned to water, then water turned to vapour. A little green sprout, insignificant in a sea of green, would protrude one day.
And Gardener would be there with his water can, greeting her, “Hello there, little one.”
for her.