Home is Where the Flowers Bloom – by Rachel R. Liu (High School)
I had always disliked the color purple. To me, it was almost aggressive. Screaming and shouting for attention like children on a playground. Loud and obnoxious, the way everything I had ever known was.
But that was before I saw the wisteria trees, it was before I met you.
Those kinds of flowers didn’t bloom back in California. We had poppies, orange like gentle koi, we had thick buckwheat and tough brambles, we had rolling hills of golden wheat and green. Rarely did I see purple, and rarely did I complain.
When I went to visit you I fell in love with your town first. It was quaint and quiet; my city was anything but. Every person had a meaning, every petal had a purpose. The sky was bluer than I’d ever seen it and the air was fresher than anything I’d ever breathed.
The trees around your house bore hanging wisteria petals, plump and undeniably purple, that swung happily in the breeze.
From then I’d look into your eyes and swear I could see purple. Speckles of early morning walks and traces of bouquets. You called me delusional, I diagnosed myself a romantic. Your name would fall off my tongue the way wisteria petals would drop from their branches; tenderly, floating through the air thinking only of love.
Upon my return, the golden hills seemed too brown, the greens all dulled to grays. Clear skies meant nothing if you were not there to enjoy them with me. I longed for the wisteria trees. I longed for home.
My mother was always a strong advocate of getting the job done. She’d tell me if I wanted something, I had to go and get it myself.
When I moved out to find you, you laughed. Not with malice, but out of confusion. There was a look in your eyes almost like worry, but I realized later it was adoration. You thought it was crazy I had moved all for you. I smiled and reassured you I hadn’t.