My dreams take me back to the double-wide trailer home. It’s summer there and school is out. I’m drawn to the girl again. She’s in her room smelling the blue flower, except now it’s purple. I float inside her. We’re connected.
“Claire!” the mother calls.
“Yes, ma’am!” we call back.
Our name is Claire. We have a floor mirror in our room. We take a brief look at ourself. We have chestnut brown hair, brown eyes, full lips, and…oh my God, I’m White.
Wait, no, we are Caucasian and we’re heading to the kitchen to see what our mother wants.
“Yes, ma’am,” we say as we enter the kitchen.
“Hey, Hun’,” Mom greets, “could you go mow the lawn?”
“Why can’t Jack do it?” we observe, “He’s a man.”
“Well,” Mom explains, “your aunt’s part of ‘that life’ and I want your cousin to feel welcome here. Y’know your father’s always at work, so he can’t do anything with him, so I just got ‘im playing video games to keep him entertained.”
“Ain’t he supposed to be studying?” we point out.
“Hun’, it’s summertime,” she chastises. “Let the boy rest. Now you get out there and mow that grass.”
We clomp and drag our feet outside. Then we slump on the front porch. We stare at the grass. I feel Claire’s hatred for the leafy blades. I can understand her contempt. Begrudgingly, we stomp towards the outdated push-mower and its simple cylinder of blades. Our hands grip the handles. We grab the mower and swing the cutting contraption, so that it faces the front yard. The mower cuts the first few blades and we stop.
In front of us is a blue bud, dwarfed by the tall grass. Suddenly, the entire front yard bursts open with blue flowers. The tall stalks of grass sink into the ground beneath the sea of blue petals. Then the blossoms close and recede into the soil, save for one. We bend down and pick the flower. The blue flower turns purple in our hand. We inhale its scent.
I feel the calmness inside Claire. She’s not freaking out. I wonder how we could treat all of this as normal. We drop the flower and move to the backyard. We smile at the ground. Blue flowers erupt from the soil again.
“I like purple,” we say aloud.
The floral carpet of teal turns violet.
“Much better.”
The tall grass shrinks into the ground. Grass stalks with seeds bend over into the ground and pop back up, seedless.
We speak to the foliage. “Thank you.”
The flowers recede, and the lawns, both front and back, have been manicured. I feel myself leave Claire’s body. My mind desperately wants to know how any of this is possible. As I float away above the lawn, I see another blue flower. It speaks to me:
“We are Tree.”
The next day after breakfast, I go outside and waiting for me on the front porch is a blue flower blossom. I pick it up in my hand and examine it. It turns purple.
I smile and remark, “We are Tree.”