rhododendrons Options

[*CrackedRearView*]

I never knew the old woman's name, but I appreciated her. She would peer through her jaundiced curtains, which had seen the evolution of suburban Kansas through decades of interruption. Those curtains, which watched the old woman progress through childhood, the Hindenburg, Orson Welles, the Depression, into her middle years, The Beatles, Malcolm X, Kent University, and to her present state, The Clash, the Clinton scandal, some little teenage pest picking rhododendrons from the garden.

And oh, were they beautiful. Their florid hue never ceased to grasp my attention; the intense crimson that blanketed the edge of the petals was like a bulwark keeping intruders from the gradually whitening center, in which lies to the secret to everything worth knowing. For the purposes of my thievery, I'd take one beautiful specimen and scurry off with it, guarding it from the harsh radiation during the summer months, and keeping it from the wrath of the winter sleet. I'd escape to a playground, in a sense, an alternate reality just two streets away.

Near the top of a feeble jungle gym, which had likely seen as much progression as the old woman's wilting curtains, was my perch. I'd march right up those "holy" steps as I'd call them (literally, because they had several little holes in them) and let my legs dangle off the entrance to the slide. And then I'd take that flushed rhododendron, knowing it has five petals, and I'd begin...

...she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not...

It was so secure -- it was always assured. 'She' always loved me. And I did so every day, even if only for posteriority's sake. It continued this way for years, until one day the old woman stopped breathing, stopped peering through her withering curtains, stopped planting rhododendrons. The moving trucks came in, left, came in again. The yellow curtains were replaced by vibrant, verdant green ones constructed of silk and laughably gaudy. Weeks later, the garden was in full bloom once again. They weren't secure, though. They weren't rhododendrons, they didn't have five petals, the old woman didn't grant me them.

They were daisies, in all of their terrifying splendor.

To the top of the rust-ridden jungle gym once more; to the top of my decaying haven -- just to find out.

She loves me, she loves me not...

Turns out she doesn't love me. Not anymore.

[fameONE]

Very well written.

[RiddleMeWonders]

That was worth every second of reading.
You described it so vividly, I thought I was you.
Thanks for sharing...

[*stephinika*]

very well done. the imagery and word choice is excellent. i love your work.