A BLACK FLOWER

This one is quieter.

Cassandra finds herself somewhere

she knows.

Or perhaps somewhere that knows her.

There is a little girl waiting.

You've met her before.

So has Cassandra.

They know each other rather well by

now.

At least Cassandra thinks they do.

The girl may have a slightly different

view.

There is also a bird.

A flower.

And enough familiar imagery to

encourage some very irresponsible

theorising.

Please continue.

I enjoy it.

Cassandra, meanwhile, has something

rather more important to pay attention

to.

The girl.

She has come for a reason.

She usually does.

A Black Flower

 

I walked quietly through my garden.

The moonlight had wrapped everything

in a silver veil. It was beautiful - as if the

world had frozen for a moment, glazed

with silver and waiting for something to

happen.

“There you are,” I finally said.

I stood in front of a small black flower.

 

“Don’t pluck it.”

The voice came from behind me.

When I turned, I saw a huge silver bird

watching me.

Behind the bird stood a little girl.

She had long, dark hair and emerald

eyes like mine.

I instantly smiled at her.

 

“I did not want to pluck it,” I said

warmly.

“But I have been looking for it. Or

should I say, we have been looking

for it?”

“Maybe,” she replied.

The bird shifted its weight from one

foot to the other.

 

“What about the bird?” I asked her.

She stepped in front of him.

“That is my friend,” she said.

Her serious tone did not quite fit her

small face.

“Okay,” I replied. I smiled at the bird.

“Welcome.”

 

The bird made a sound. It was

distorted, to say the least.

Not the song of a nightingale.

Its dark eyes stayed focused on me.

“Interesting,” I murmured.

 

„He is as rare as this flower. An old

friend“ she said .

I looked at the flower again, then back

at the girl.

“Why are you here?” I asked softly.

“To say goodbye,” she answered in the

same quiet voice.

 

“No.”

The word came out instantly.

Even I could hear the sharpness in it.

The pain underneath.

She did not answer. She simply looked

at me.

It was a calm look, but it made her

young face seem older than mine.

 

I looked at the black flower again.

I inhaled its deep scent,

then turned back to her.

“So that is it,” I said. “I tried everything I

could to make you stay.”

What I said was true.

I was only saying aloud what we both

already knew.

 

“Yes.”

She smiled, and her face lit up.

“The flower is what you need now,” she

said.

Beside her, the silver bird made that

strange, distorted sound again.

 

“Tell me about it,” I said, curious.

“It is you.”

She paused.

“You in your true form.

A flower that chose the most unique

colour.

A flower that chose to withstand the

seasons.

One that needs both sun and

moonlight to grow.

One that has dark sides and white

underneath.”

 

I nodded as she spoke.

The way she said it sounded strange

coming from her:

a little girl standing barefoot in a

simple dress,  with eyes that seemed to

have seen things far beyond her age.

The huge bird stood beside her.

A protector, I assumed.

A new one.

 

“It is time now,” she said softly.

“A few more minutes,” I answered.

I could already feel tears creeping up.

She nodded and stood very still.

“Will I see you again?” I asked her.

She smiled.

“Every time you look in the mirror.”

I smiled back at her.

 

“There is still one thing to do,” she

finally said.

She looked at the bird.

The same distorted sound came from

him as he walked slowly towards the

black flower.

He lowered his head, pecked at it once,

and swallowed it whole.

 

For a second, I was too shocked to

move.

Then I saw his colour beginning to

change.

The silver of his feathers darkened.

Black feathers appeared beneath

them.

He became smaller, more elegant,

almost weightless.

And then a sound came from him.

Dark.

Melodic.

Beautiful.

 

The girl smiled at me and gestured

towards the bird.

Slowly, he spread his wings.

It looked like an embrace.

When I walked towards him, I felt his

wings closing around me. 

I felt him dissolving into my skin, my

flesh and bones, my heart.

Then the bird was gone.

The flower as well.

 

I looked at her.

My eyes felt a little darker than before.

“Show them kindness,” she said.

“They do not know how to handle us.”

I nodded.

 

“And leave doors open for those who

see the black flower.”

She smiled.

“I can go now,” she said.

“I was the soil that made her grow.

The water that made her soft.

The sun that showed her white.

And the thunder that made her strong.”

 

I felt tears running over my cheeks.

“No,” she said softly. “No tears.”

Her face was gentle now.

“Embrace it. Do not feel guilty or sad.

You command, not bow.

You create, not stagnate.

You love and live. You teach and learn.

You have your own way.”

 

She paused.

“That is what black flowers do. Always.”

The garden was quiet around us.

“And one recognises another,” she

continued.

“So look out for them. Some do not

know what they truly are.

Some are on the verge of realising.

Some reject it.

And some want to be like all the other

flowers.”

 

Her eyes met mine.

“But deep down, they know.”

She smiled again.

“Like you did, all the time.”

I looked at her.

 

“You were never one,” I said softly.

“I am a gardener,” she said.

Then she laughed

STRENGTH

VIII — Strength

 

The little girl.

Not the enormous bird.

I thought I should clear that up

immediately.

Humans do have a tendency to look

for strength in the largest thing in the

room.

Understandable.

Lions.

Heroes.

Warriors.

Gods lifting mountains.

We've been very impressed by muscles

for quite some time.

 

Strength is older than that.

It is the force that lets something

endure without remaining unchanged.

Roots do it.

Bones do it.

Hearts, occasionally.

With mixed results.

 

Cassandra has always been very good

at enduring.

Integration took longer.

The flower.

The bird.

The darkness.

The white beneath it.

None of it needs to be defeated.

None of it needs to disappear.

It becomes hers.

That's different.

 

And then there is the girl.

Cassandra thought she was the flower.

She wasn't.

She's the gardener.

Interesting.

We were just talking about gardens.

I'm sure that's nothing.

 

And now the gardener says goodbye.

Apparently her work here is done.

Cassandra asks whether she'll see her

again. She will.

Every time she looks in the mirror.