When Love Blossoms

Screams. The screams of the newly-cut grass woke me in the morning, as they did everyday. I don’t understand humans, they work and care for the grass, loving it and keeping it green, only to turn around and chop it down. They seem to enjoy the the screams of grass, cutting them day after day.

I look at Zinnia. Her beautiful pink color means she won’t be subject to the fate of the grass. I am safe as well, for Zinnia and I are flowers, and flowers are never cut down.

I’ve known Zinnia since we were sprouts. We were raised in the same greenhouse. I saw her for the first time in a box with her species. I was in a box with my fellow daisies. Sprouts are usually very quiet and shy, but Zinnia has always been chatty. Her talkative nature annoys Peony, but it’s still my favorite part about her.

“Hello!” Zinnia said to me. “You are a daisy!”

“Yes.” I responded.

“I am a zinnia.”

“Yes.”

Normal flowers would have stopped the conversation there, but Zinnia has never been a normal flower.

“What color do you suppose you’ll be, Daisy?” She asked.

My breed is rarely anything other than white with a yellow center, and this is what I told her.

She waited a moment before she spoke again. “Oh. I could be all sorts of colors! Perhaps red or yellow. Maybe even purple or blue…”

Zinnia is pink. It’s her gorgeous color that the humans loved when they picked her. That, and her soft petals and strong stem. It was a miracle they had picked me too; I looked like every other daisy. Zinnia looked happy when I was planted next to her.

“Good morning, Zinnia.” I said, as I do every morning. She didn’t respond. Zinnia wasn’t usually a late sleeper, but I suppose everyone has those kinds of days. 

“Good morning, Zinnia.” I said again, louder this time. Perking up, Zinnia looked to where the sound that woke her had come from.

“Hello, Daisy.” Zinnia said sleepily. Tired looking, but still beautiful as ever.

“Are you alright?” I asked. “You’re usually the first awake.”

“I will be. I’m just feeling a bit dehydrated, the sprinklers must’ve missed me yesterday. Good thing they come everyday, right?” Classic Zinnia. Always the optimist.

“Oh.” I said. “That’s good. Please, do tell me if the problem continues. We could make the humans notice if it gets too bad!”

“You have far too much worry.” Zinnia giggled. “Please don’t use up anymore on me! I really am fine.”

“Shut up!” Came an irritated voice from behind me. “It is far too early for your yammering.”

Peony is always annoyed. They are the oldest flower in the garden, as they continue to bloom year after year. Peony gets especially annoyed with the new plants. The first few weeks in the garden, they tried to scare us by saying that talkative flowers get cut. We now know that Peony is ridiculous; flowers don’t get cut.

“Sorry, Peony!” We said in unison. They gave us a grunt in response.

Zinnia looked up at the sky.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Daisy?” She asked.

“What?” I replied.

“The world.” Zinnia said. Yes. Yes it was.

Zinnia’s view was interrupted by the bees. They were rare visitors, but I loved it when they came. The bees came to drink our nectar and spread the pollen of male flowers. I do not know if I am a ‘he’ or a ‘she’. Zinnia is a ‘she’. I know because she told me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bee?” I said.

“Yes, little daisy?” He asked.

“Am I female?”

The bee paused and examined me.

“Yes.” He answered a few moments later.

“Oh.”

“But you are also male.”

“Oh?”

“You are hermaphroditic. It means you are both.” The bee smiled.

“Thank you, Mr. Bee.” I smiled back. That didn’t seem like it answered my question. I guess I am a ‘she’, I felt like one. Yes, I am a ‘she’, just like Zinnia.

“Zinnia?” I asked. She was wilting slightly again, and her warning not to worry was overpowered by anxiety in my mind.

“Zinnia?!” I asked again. “Are you still dehydrated?” Zinnia began to perk up, tiredly. There appeared a vine with tiny white buds where her head had been before. Convolvulus Arvenis. Blind weed. An invasive plant deadly to flowers. I gasped.

“You worry too much.” Zinnia laughed. “Perhaps this weed is simply helping to hold our soil.” We both know that this was not the case. But classic Zinnia. Always the optimist.

All the flowers faced the sun as it rose the next day, all except Zinnia, who was leaned against me.

“Get up.” I whispered. “You need the sun.”

“No.” She replied. “I’d rather be closer to you.”

I waited a few moments for Zinnia to fall back asleep before calling for Peony. They seemed annoyed, then they saw Zinnia wilted against me and they gentled.

“Peony,” I asked quietly, as to not wake Zinnia, “have you ever known a flower to survive Convolvulus Arvenis?”

Peony sighed. “Little daisy, I’ve never known a garden to survive blind weed, much less a tiny flower.” I choked back the start of tears, waking Zinnia in the process.

“Are you alright, Daisy?” Zinnia whispered.

“Of course,” was all I managed to spit out.

“Please don’t cry for me. I love you and I can’t bear to see you upset. Just look at the world, Daisy, it’s beautiful.” Zinnia went quiet. I looked to Peony, who lowered their head sadly.

Screams. The screams of new-cut grass woke me again, but the sun was not visible that day, a human was blocking it. They looked concerned.

I looked to Zinnia, she hadn’t even attempted to rise from her wilted state. The human revealed scissors.

There were no screams, everyone was too weak. 

I could’ve sworn the world was less beautiful that day. The loss of an optimist.

I guess flowers actually can be cut.