Blue Flowers I Do Not Know the Name Of

We live in an apartment complex with orange-tan brick buildings forming the shape of a moon. My room is the longest stretch to the front door, but I like it this way. There is comfort in being the last person to the front entry. I share a wooden bunk bed with Victoria, but I am the one who decorated the room. Victoria lives with us every other weekend and with her mom the rest of the days. I barely see her because I spend every other weekend with my dad too. That’s why, I like to think this is only my room.

 My mom and her boyfriend are in the room adjacent to us, but I wish they are not. Down the carpet hall, compacted from years of use, is the room of my brother, Skyler, and Victoria’s brothers, Bentley and Daniel. Bentley stays with us most of the time, but Daniel comes and goes with Victoria. Bentley is my brother’s age, six, and they are glued to each other. When one leaves the room, then the other follows. It is summer and we are sent outside the bulk of the days. Sometimes they angrily send us away and sometimes we are ravenous for air. This is one of the angry days. Once, I came back to grab my bucket of chalk from the boys’ room and my mom’s boyfriend yelled until I cried. He said I never listened, and his face was the shape and color of a tomato. I do not come home on the angry days unless the sky is purple.

My feet slap the concrete steps down the second floor to the surrounding grass. My hair, twisted and mangled, flies through the air. I grip the railing and bunny bounce off the last step into a patch of grass next to the walkway. Skyler and Bentley are behind me carrying a cracked skateboard with faded cartoons on the back. The sidewalk encases the whole complex with paths between every building leading to the center. The sound of the boys’ voices fades into the distance as I meander along the walkway towards the center. I want my friend to come play with me. She lives on the opposite side of the complex on the bottom floor, but I do not mind the journey. The heat radiates off my back, and my nose widens as a floral smell permeates the air. 

When I stop in front of her doorway, a pink bike with braided flowers tied to each handlebar rests against the wall. My old bike was pink and had tassels that whipped and sparkled when I rode it. We lost it in the move. I turn my attention to the door spackled with dirt and knock hard. Her dad shoots the door wide a few seconds later and I am informed my friend is over at her grandma’s house. I pick at the skin around my nails and heave a miserable sigh as I toss him a goodbye. To raise my spirits, I decide to head to the best spot here. 

In the absolute center of this living abode is a circular garden. Benches splayed atop cobblestone and concrete bushels lifted high off the ground containing an arrangement of shrubbery and bloomed flowers. Bees are buzzing and whizzing from the tulips to the roses to the blue flowers I do not know the name of. I climb onto a bench. It wobbles and tilts, but my hands do not sweat or shake. I know this bench well. I grip the stone behind it and reach further until I am bracing the smooth, wet dirt beneath the greenery. I slide my knees so they touch my hands and then my feet hastily replace their position on the ground. Now standing, I gaze far into the distance where the mountains halt my view any further. I have seen the mountains every day since my birth. I do not recognize their beauty anymore. My head tilts high as I glaze my eyes over them, with my hands dirty and my stance seemingly taller than the trees I feel as powerful as the mountains. Towering over the brightly colored flowers, I do not feel small or alone anymore. 

I walk along the stone wall outline, proud of my inability to fall. I miss my friends from school and learning about the clouds. I am good at taking tests, so I miss those too. Always when summer first arrives it seems there is never enough time in the day for swimming or building mud pies, or drawing. Now, a restlessness has captured me, and I use far too much time wandering the apartment grounds searching for entertainment. I am expertly balancing along the wall, a melody slowly spilling from my lips, when my brother and Bentley find me. 

“Maggie!” Skyler shouts. Bentley surfs the skateboard down a mini hill and Skyler skips behind.

“Where have you guys been?” I squeak back. I should have stayed with them. I want them to stay with me, so I try my luck with a proposal. “Remember the flowers. Maybe we can have some honey from them.” My finger extends out and I gesture to the blue flowers that are growing from a bush. Some time ago, my friend showed us that we could suck the nectar from the flowers. The taste was sweet and watery. The only flowers we knew for sure had honey were these blue ones, but we still tried to see if other flowers had nectar too. It became a gambling game to pick the correct flowers. Skyler thought the honey came from the bees that raced around the garden, but I knew better. My teacher taught us the flowers produced the honey and the bees collected it.

“Okay, let’s play a game,” Bentley replies, squishing a leaf between his fingers. “The person who collects the most flowers gets to use the skateboard for the rest of the day.” 

I glance to the sky fading into orange and red. “Alright,” I pause and then quickly say, “Ready, set, go!” 

I have the advantage as the boys climb the bench and gather themselves upon the dirt. The air is sizzling with excitement as we race around to collect as many of the flowers as possible. It appears even the bees can feel the electricity in the air for their buzzing increases and rings in my ears. My fingers nip and tug the flowers from their homes in frenzied motions and by the time we are through I have created a cocoon for them in my shirt. 

We count our loot and I have won the competition by only three flowers. We sit in a row on the concrete encasement, swinging our legs and greedily taking the honey from the tiny tiny blue flowers. The sun has almost completely disappeared with only purple streaks as an afterthought. We scurry back down and race the darkness home. 

Everyone ate dinner together and there were no loud shouts or red faces. We had a pasta with marinara sauce, and we create designs with the noodles. Later, right before my bedtime, I dance to the kitchen in search of water and I catch my mom and her boyfriend kissing. I fly back to my room, but when the strange sounds float through my wall, I do not wonder if Mom is being hurt anymore. I know what is happening, and I wish they would shut up. I cannot help tears on my face and the empty feeling in my stomach. My sadness grows and my heart aches for my dad and the life before this. I notice my notebook on the ground and decide to draw until the noise fades away. I draw my old house where I had a room all to myself, and blue flowers on the front porch.