erysimum capitatum

western wallflower

I wish I was a flower. I wish people gave me meaning, and gave me to loved ones. I wish I was treasured. Yet, I am a person. I am a human. I am a human who thinks they like another human because they offered them food—half a pizza, to be precise.

Yellow is my favorite color. It has been for a while, and I feel bad for ignoring the color because it’s so, so beautiful. In any lighting, it glows. It enhances colors around it. It’s used as a symbol for happiness and hope and spontaneity.

I like to think of myself as a spontaneous person. However, I think the word that fits most is impulsive. I don’t think things through often. This is why I would be a perfect flower. Flowers don’t think. The daffodils in my yard bloom a day before snow, and yet, they stay bloomed. They face their actions, instead of backing out. I tend to back out.

Back to the pizza—I hate the place it’s from. Well, I’ll say dislike. I dislike the place that it’s from. For context: students that achieved honor roll were given coupons for free pizza. I did not make honor roll, so, when the opportunity arose, I stole the coupon from a classmate. We’ll call him Fireweed. Well, once Fireweed took notice, he slipped me a note. It had a pear on it, and the text above was asking if he could have it back. I felt bad, so I drew a small person and added an “okay” above their head. He must’ve taken notice of my resignation, as he sent a third note after I handed the coupon back. It read, “we can split it. Call me and I’ll deliver”, with his number below.

I don’t enjoy telling anyone personal information, but I think my life is so monotonous I have to take inspiration from anywhere I can find it. But I don’t want to talk about Fireweed anymore, so here’s a memory:

My dad is a nature photographer, and one of his favorite things to photograph is wildflowers. When I was too young to start school, he took me with him on his photography trips, often walking with me down various trails and visiting state parks together. My dad would tell me all about the various things he was photographing, such as what flower we were looking at, where it’s native to, and why he liked it so much. Now, I find I’ve forgotten most of the flowers we looked at, but the emotion the memory holds is still prominent.

Erysimum capitatum is a wildflower that isn’t native to the east, but it’s my favorite. It’s found in California as well as several other western states, but that fact isn’t relevant to my opinion. Back to Fireweed boy.

Of course I messaged him. I haven’t heard any response, but he’s at least followed my various accounts. I wouldn’t be surprised if I scared him off— I’m not someone he’d commonly hang around. From what I can tell, we’re two different people.

I call him Fireweed because his hair reminds me of the plant. I think he has a perm, though it may be naturally curly. It’s a reddish brown as far as my memory serves. While I think about this, I’m also debating whether or not I should message him about the pizza. I only have so long before the coupon expires. I hope he’ll actually respond.

Back to wildflowers. Why are they called wildflowers? Does this imply that other flowers like tulips are domestic? Can flowers be domesticated? I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. Neither, I assume, do you.

Speaking of flowers, I have a picnic coming up. Every time I go to a picnic, I make a flower crown. These are usually made out of dandelions, however, like me, they tend to slither out of situations. By slither, I mean close up. We—the dandelions and I —are cowards.

I like to describe people as flowers. My mom is a myrtle flower, energetic and free. I was asked by Fireweed if I was a hippie, and I don’t think I am, but my mom is definitely one. She’s carefree, loves peace signs, and strangely resilient. This is what makes her 100% myrtle.

Following the tree theme, my dad is mountain laurel. This may be just because he loves the plant so much, but I think it fits him. Mountain laurel stands for perseverance, and he’s done a fair share of that.

My sister is hard though. She’s so stubborn, I want to say she’s some invasive species like kudzu. She’s got some favorite flower that she keeps getting, but I always forget what it’s called.

 My brother is azalea. It symbolizes feminine beauty which doesn’t exactly fit but it’s good enough for me— he can still be as manly as he wishes while staying an azalea. When he first moved out, he sent me pictures of the azaleas that bloomed on his daily walks. He was home this week, actually, and it was nice. No azaleas have bloomed yet, though.

My sister— I suppose she’s a sky plant. She had some in her room and underwent a constant battle to keep them alive, which led to her ultimate defeat. As for myself, I cannot be so sure. I do not know yet what I will become, and so for now, I am a bud.