Spring Rain

Rain splatters on me, soaking my hair through. My umbrella is broken. A truth, technically, but also a fib. My umbrella is not newly broken, it’s been dilapidated for months now. 

I walk my walk of shame through the early morning rain. Despite the cold and wet, I love the rain. It washes away everything and brings new life. I can see it now, the little spring buds popping out like fireflies in the night. Spring is the season I’m alive, when my power can truly shine. But I need the help of the rain for a little push. 

Even though it has rained all morning, it is now spring. Meaning every spring person, with above average power, will be showing off at the festival. Umbrellas surround me, people of summer regretting coming out. Alas, any summer who see;s themselves as self respecting will come. After all, spring leads to summer. 

The rain turns into a drizzle, then a murmur until it finally stops. So of course, the springs make their entrances. Wearing dresses and suits of pink and purple, petals falling from their hair onto the ground, making a path from puddles that were once ice to the freshly watered plant beds. 

As one, all ten of them kneel on either side of the flower beds. Again, as one, they delicately place their hands underneath the soil. 

Abruptly, tulips, and lilies, and every other flower imaginable springs forth. Turning their once pristine soil this way and that. 

Though others don’t see it, I can feel it. The way the roots dig in, gripping the soil with a vise-like grip. Ensuring that they will be difficult to uproot. Ensuring that they won’t die easily. At least, that's what should be happening. But instead, the roots meet the concrete under the shallow flower beds, unable to have the proper root system that a flower that size would require, they will quickly wither and die. 

They will be gone by tomorrow. New ones will replace them, in the same flower beds, but off to the side, and not quite as large as these ones. The people will have no need to show off anymore. The dead ones will be turned into fertilizer, helping to ensure that the live ones will have the needed nutrition to survive without help. 

The show is only part way over, but I leave anyway. Unamused by the mostly theatrical show. Step after step leads me home, but I pass without a glance towards the apartment building. Down one alley, leading me to my safe haven, though it doesn't look like one at all. 

I unlock the padlock that relapses the old door’s broken one, though it’s probably useless, but it brings a sort of comfort. The old building was once a host to a thrift store, but they went bankrupt and let the building rot. I was able to buy the sad place for only a couple hundred bucks, something about it being a terrible spot for a store of any kind. It’s old, worn down, and the roof is almost completely gone now, but it’s mine. 

Most wouldn’t like that the roof is destroyed, that it means the rain can fall in, but that's what I want. The rain comes in, hitting the intruding dirt that has been chipping away at the concrete floors with me. 

My hand cradles the packet of poppy seeds my mother gave me for this spring. Every year, a different flower, depending on how she thinks that year would go. I wonder what poppies mean. 

My eyes fixate on the soaked, dark dirt before me as I rip open the small packet. The packet tip, tip, tips into my awaiting palm, seeds filling it but refusing to spill over. 

The tiny, black seeds vibrate in my hand, jumping for joy at the chance of growing tall and strong. 

The smile that comes to my face is one that is abundant in spring, but only when I have my plants.

With a flick of my hand, seeds fly out, scattering across the wet dirt. My power surges in anticipation, but doesn’t unleash. Inch by inch, I lower to the ground, containing my abilities for when I want.Hands bury themselves in the soil, it scurries under my nails, imprinting darkly for days to come.

First the roots, they turn the soil, flipping it all so the seeds are completely covered, allowing them to get nutrients from the soil when I am not here to help. They shoot down, planting themselves firmly. 

Next come the stems, almost like bricks or jenga blocks, they quickly build themselves up, bit by bit, they brighten to a beautiful green. 

Once the trunk, the base of the flowers are secure and ready, I allow them to bud, to stretch their leaves as far as they comfortably can, before encouraging them to bloom. Purple and red poppies immediately brighten up the room. Bringing life to the once sad dilapidated building. 

My power sighs, content for now with the relief that can only come from encouraging life to grow and bloom. But I can’t stop there, it is the first day of spring after all, I have to do something big for today. 

I mingle the roots of the poppies, telling them to mix, to intermingle. From there, I create completely new flowers. From them poppies of orange and pink sprout. Now. Now I am done. They are beautiful. 

Once at a full bloom, and as big as possible, without being at risk for dying prematurely. My hands retreat from the earth, and everyone was fascinated with the dead flower show. This is what true life looks like. Not doomed to death from the start, but just given a leap in the growing process. 

I pat the dirt off my hands onto my pants, though it doesn’t do much, it helps bet the top layer off. 

The padlock becomes a guardian once again, though it does no begrudgingly. A raindrop punches the lock. At least my flowers will have plenty of water.