The perfect flower was nowhere to be found. Elinor was down on her knees, the moist mud colouring the tips of her yellow blonde hair, a darker brown. Her fists pressed into the yielding mud, tiny clawing fingernails dutifully collecting the dirt. It had just rained a fresh downpour, and the air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers. An assorted mix of yellow, red and pink roses wafted a strong pervading presence. Far out in the corner of the backyard, a lone patch of petunias bloomed. She had to bend really low, the petals kissing her face to catch a whiff of their scent. Her mother was very proud of the little garden. Elinor would often find her singing merrily, and sitting cross-legged amidst a scattering of green grass and gardening tools.
Mother favoured roses much more than petunias, and this partiality extended towards her children as well. Elinor had an elder brother, Evan, a red-haired freckled imitation of Mother, who usually got the first cookie out of the jar and the first kiss goodnight. Elinor felt a special connection, an affinity to the petunias, which claimed their rightful place at the edge of the rose garden. This was where she crouched now, searching for the best flower amongst the second best. Mother would not be happy to see the current state of the patch, but she was away visiting grandmother. Since mother was rarely happy with Elinor, she knew this wouldn’t come as much of a surprise. She ploughed on in her relentless quest, determined to find what she was looking for.
Round curves, evenly coloured, the teacher had drawn the most beautiful flower in painting class last week. Elinor had copied it in her notebook with a meticulous intensity that was unusual for an eight-year-old. The teacher had praised the drawing and held it up for the entire class to see. Elinor had proudly come home to show it to her mother. Mother had not been as impressed, though that didn’t stop Elinor from drawing.
Round curves, evenly coloured, the teacher had drawn the most beautiful flower in painting class last week. Elinor had copied it in her notebook with a meticulous intensity that was unusual for an eight-year-old. The teacher had praised the drawing and held it up for the entire class to see. Elinor had proudly come home to show it to her mother. Mother had not been as impressed, though that didn’t stop Elinor from drawing.
She liked imagining things in her head and then imagining them again on paper. More than anything, she enjoyed the freedom it gave to make her dreams a living reality. She started out with shapes, drawing pages and pages of the perfect circle, equal in radius and exact in diameter. Then began her obsession with the triangle followed by the rectangle, pentagon and onwards. Circles were her favourite. She didn’t like the sharp, pointed, unfriendly edges of the many-sided polygons that ended with a harsh finality. The circle was smooth and forgiving, infinite and never ending. Then there came the flowers, the repetitive squiggly loops that returned again and again to the heart of the circle. Elinor couldn’t understand why it was so hard to find a flower exactly like her own. After all, if it existed in the back of her brain, it must exist in the back of her yard. So she toiled on with the hope and optimism of a child who hopes to catch clouds, touch the rainbow and visit the moon.
There was something wrong with each one of them. Jagged around the edges, one petal smaller than the other, an occasional tear, a spot here, a line there. Elinor was not pleased. She dug harder, redoubling her efforts like a little dog searching for his prized bone. The flowers piled up to the side, fresh offerings to the graveyard of holes she had dug up.
Then she saw it. The perfect petunia nestled deep down, yet dew dropped and bright pink, protected in its underground tomb. The petals conjoined to the perfect circle in the centre, each one coloured and shaped the exact same. Finally satisfied Elinor walked back into the house and placed the flower on her mother’s desk. Then she happily went to bed.
Then she saw it. The perfect petunia nestled deep down, yet dew dropped and bright pink, protected in its underground tomb. The petals conjoined to the perfect circle in the centre, each one coloured and shaped the exact same. Finally satisfied Elinor walked back into the house and placed the flower on her mother’s desk. Then she happily went to bed.
Mother returned home that night and picked up the flower. It was so strange, unusual and unknown that she didn’t quite know what to make of it. The true value of something is lost if it has no comparison. It stands alone, isolated in its brilliance awaiting approval from an unsure audience. Favouritism is easy when something is familiar, and so mother said nothing. When Elinor asked about it in the morning, she thanked her and smiled. By evening the flower lay intact, still, dew-dropped and bright pink on mother’s desk, forgotten.
Mother remembered the mess of the petunia patch, and Elinor remembered the flower. She carefully took it to a vase in her room and with it, her desire for mother’s approval. The flower grew stronger with Elinor’s unflinching admiration, her inspiration and aspiration. It started to become real, the kind of stuff that dreams are made of. Adults know that the perfection of an ideal only exists in the mind, but kids know better. Elinor was a clever child, and she knew that just because something lives in her imagination doesn’t mean it isn’t real. It’s very real and lives in a continuum that transcends time and space. It’s called magic and grows stronger if you believe in it.
Mother remembered the mess of the petunia patch, and Elinor remembered the flower. She carefully took it to a vase in her room and with it, her desire for mother’s approval. The flower grew stronger with Elinor’s unflinching admiration, her inspiration and aspiration. It started to become real, the kind of stuff that dreams are made of. Adults know that the perfection of an ideal only exists in the mind, but kids know better. Elinor was a clever child, and she knew that just because something lives in her imagination doesn’t mean it isn’t real. It’s very real and lives in a continuum that transcends time and space. It’s called magic and grows stronger if you believe in it.
Elinor often drew the flower in her study, admiring its perfection, wondering if she would feel the same way about anything else. She did but it wasn’t a thing, it was a person. His name was Toby. He had beautiful big blue eyes, a perfectly crooked nose, and two symmetrical giant front teeth. Elinor thought he looked lovely. He sat beside her in geometry class, and she shyly studied the way his freckles moved when he scrunched up his nose to work on sums. The way he stuck the tip of his tongue out when he wasn’t getting it right. That was where Elinor helped him. She was better at math than he was, but he still seemed to be better than her in every other way or so she thought. She told him once, ‘I like you,’ plucking up all the courage of young love. He scrunched up his nose the same way he had done earlier, and suddenly Elinor didn’t like the way his freckles moved. His giant front teeth resembled those of a pesky rodent. His nose looked someone had half broken it, and then decided it wasn’t worth the full effort. Her puppy dog eyes grew narrow, and the compliments ceased. Elinor decided she didn’t like him after all.
She went home, placed the flower in the palm of her hands and asked it a question. The flower wasn’t ready to answer yet. She still believed, and every day it grew more powerful in its magical abilities.
One day, Elinor held the flower up to her hair and wound a lock around to tie it in. She looked at herself in the mirror, and was shocked to find not the eight-year-old girl that she was a minute ago, but instead a beautiful young woman, a proper grown up. Her yellow-blonde hair was long, luxurious framing a face with piercing almond blue eyes, full round lips and flawless skin. There was a knock on the door, and she turned to see a handsome young man with warm brown eyes, and a dimpled smile. He was beautiful she had to admit, but Elinor was drawn back to her own reflection. Fingers caressed her hair, the sunlight catching the yellow strands, and then she noticed her impeccable flower. She had almost forgotten it.
The image changed.
There was a rectangular house with a square garden. Bright colours like the flowers in her backyard, abstract shapes in perfect harmony, and complete chaos. Wonky circles, uneven squares, crooked lines and jagged surfaces. Her hair was pulled tight, bags under almond eyes, her figure not as slim but she looked happy. Then there was a child, a small girl, her mirror image except for a pointed nose. There was a little boy too, he looked more like the handsome young man, but without the dimpled smile. Elinor remembered to love him the same.
Slowly she watched her flawless skin sag, and the wrinkled patterns met white streaked hair upon which the flower rested. There it was forgotten, yet ageless and perfectly preserved in time. She cautiously brought her hand up to her hair and pulled it out.
There was a flash of blinding white light.
There was nothing.
Elinor was eight again. She looked at the scared little girl with wide-open eyes, at her small child's body fresh with the promise of youth, and felt a whole lot older. The image had changed on the inside, but that doesn't mean that it didn't exist.
Her mother knocked on the door and called her down to dinner. It had only been a couple of hours since she had been back home. Elinor cradled the flower in her hands, took it out to the backyard, and buried it underground. The other petunias had wilted. Then she went to dinner. She thought of telling her mother what had happened, but the adults wouldn’t understand that the kids knew better.
One day, Elinor held the flower up to her hair and wound a lock around to tie it in. She looked at herself in the mirror, and was shocked to find not the eight-year-old girl that she was a minute ago, but instead a beautiful young woman, a proper grown up. Her yellow-blonde hair was long, luxurious framing a face with piercing almond blue eyes, full round lips and flawless skin. There was a knock on the door, and she turned to see a handsome young man with warm brown eyes, and a dimpled smile. He was beautiful she had to admit, but Elinor was drawn back to her own reflection. Fingers caressed her hair, the sunlight catching the yellow strands, and then she noticed her impeccable flower. She had almost forgotten it.
The image changed.
There was a rectangular house with a square garden. Bright colours like the flowers in her backyard, abstract shapes in perfect harmony, and complete chaos. Wonky circles, uneven squares, crooked lines and jagged surfaces. Her hair was pulled tight, bags under almond eyes, her figure not as slim but she looked happy. Then there was a child, a small girl, her mirror image except for a pointed nose. There was a little boy too, he looked more like the handsome young man, but without the dimpled smile. Elinor remembered to love him the same.
Slowly she watched her flawless skin sag, and the wrinkled patterns met white streaked hair upon which the flower rested. There it was forgotten, yet ageless and perfectly preserved in time. She cautiously brought her hand up to her hair and pulled it out.
There was a flash of blinding white light.
There was nothing.
Elinor was eight again. She looked at the scared little girl with wide-open eyes, at her small child's body fresh with the promise of youth, and felt a whole lot older. The image had changed on the inside, but that doesn't mean that it didn't exist.
Her mother knocked on the door and called her down to dinner. It had only been a couple of hours since she had been back home. Elinor cradled the flower in her hands, took it out to the backyard, and buried it underground. The other petunias had wilted. Then she went to dinner. She thought of telling her mother what had happened, but the adults wouldn’t understand that the kids knew better.
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