Wildflowers
Christina began to question the wisdom of this trip.
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She wrapped her sweater closer to her body as she scanned the familiar layout of the cottage. Being immersed in the lush, green forests of Vermont – miles from the nearest town – used to make her feel like a princess in a fairytale when she was small. The trees seemed to hum when the wind passed through, and the wildflowers bloomed in strange circles. Now, it made her feel alone. The silence eerily heavy, reminding her of all she had lost.
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Christina ran her dirt-stained fingertips over the small kitchen island where she had scarfed down pancakes, made “spells” with tea leaves, and confessed teenage drama over biscuits and jam.
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Her eyes scanned the shelves lined with porcelain teacups, polished river stones her grandmother called wards, and mason jars bursting with honey and jam labeled with desires – love, health, joy – as she made her way to the sofa that smelled of dust and cedar. The worn out fabric of the faded red throw blanket caressed her hands as she knelt down and wept.
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She remembered the last time she was here like it was yesterday. Spring was in full bloom, and her Grandma had finally agreed to let her paint the windowpanes with flower details. But the paint had to be made with pigments ground from stones, mixed with lake water, and blessed by her Grandmother’s hands.
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“You are 25 years old now, Christina,” her Grandma had said with a hint of accusation, while stirring lemon pound cake batter, adding vitality salt. “And there is still so much I have yet to teach you.”
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Christina nodded her head with fake reverence. But her Grandmother persisted, “I worry about what will happen when I’m gone... The world you see isn’t all there is. There is more to it than meets the eye. It’s magical, yes, but also dangerous–”
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“Shhh Grandma, that won’t be for a long while.” Christina coaxed, as she started lining the tins with companion butter. Before her Grandmother could continue her spiral, she added, “Now, when are you going to finally let me paint the windows? Like you said, I am 25 now. I am not a petulant child with a sharpie.”
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The silence was charged with a foreboding energy that raised the hairs on Christina’s arm. The cottage felt colder.
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Christina was about to change the topic when her Grandmother put the bowl aside and gripped her hands. “Fine. One day this cottage, and all the wonders within it, will be yours. If you want to pepper the windows with wildflowers, I won’t stop you.”
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So, that is exactly what she had done as the sun set. They recounted childhood memories, ate an entire loaf of pound cake, and fell asleep by the fire under the same red quilt.
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As the memory washed over Christina, a quiet ache settled in her bones. And then, like a whisper, something called her attention to the fireplace mantel — where an old notebook she didn’t remember ever seeing sat waiting.