Blooming

As a little kid, I saw a tiny yellow blossom sprout open on a scrubby stem. It was in the field behind the house of my mom's friend. It seemed impossible to begin with, to watch a flower bloom. Flowers are much more discreet than to jump out all in the open. And it happened so fast I doubted I had seen it. So I sat and watched the plant to see if any more would pop open before my eyes. They didn't. Just a yellow stain on my mind of a tiny yellow blossom.

Years later in college, I bought iris spears at the farmers market. They would bloom into big purple beauties in a day or two. I put them at the foot of my bed, where the lamp was sitting, clicked off the lamp and laid down to sleep. It was black in my room, not even light enough to see my hand in front of my face. Lying there in the stillness, I heard a faint rustle. I couldn't figure out what it was. So I turned on the lamp, and there in its light were the irises, bloomed. I had heard the irises blooming.

Years after that, I went on a walk with a date at the Douglas Preserve in Santa Barbara. It was dusk, and there were low-growing green plants that looked like pools of green leaves. There were white flower buds all over them, and as the sun set deeper, the buds began to unfold. We sat on our haunches and watched them all open, whispering to talk.