celie, district eleven ; fin cb

a sunflower sprouted in our backyard the day i was born.

you're a child of the earth, my mother used to whisper to me at night before bed, tucking a loose strand of midnight hair behind my ear. she stared down at my wide eyes that drank up the stars and my cherub face, and smiled. it reminded her of the innocence of youth. she was warm and gentle, inviting like a crisp breeze on a sultry summer day. i remember melting into her hugs, silently wishing that time would stop and i could just remain in that singular moment.

we used to work for hours in the garden, under the beaming heat, i'd mimic her movements like a shadow. she'd kneel down and rip the weeds from the soil, cursing them under her breath because she had just done this the other day. i'd do the same, digging my knees into the ground and tearing the wicked roots up, echoing her frustration. she'd grin, a crease appearing on her forehead as she did, a sign of the weathered woman she's become.

i buried her yesterday.

a sun always sets.

in the garden where we once laughed, right by the sunflower that's bloomed for eighteen years, growing as tall as i had. the earth gave first and i gave back, the bones of my mother nourishing the land the fairlight's had called home for decades. she'd be happy about that. proud that even in death she'll live on within the food we eat, still responsible for a bountiful harvest.

her legacy is one akin to the earth: giving.

and one day, it'll be mine too.