The Growing Seedling
Caitlin O'Halloran
When I first saw it, it was a tiny seedling, peeking out from under the edge of my bedroom carpet. It had two leaves and a single bud, and for a moment I considered plucking it out from the root, since plants are not supposed to grow out of floorboards. They belong in the dirt, outside in a garden, or in the woods where vegetation grows rampant. To exist inside, it must be carefully controlled, watered on a schedule, rotated and moved about a room according to the angles of the sun. But when I reached for it, a spark of electricity leapt from the bud to my index finger, linking the two of us together. “Okay,” I said, and peeled back the carpet to expose it to more sunlight. “You win.”
At first, I worried that one wrong step would crush it, but when I woke the next morning, I saw it had doubled in size. By the third day its stem was as thick as a tree trunk with green peduncles that spread out like a peacock’s feathers, each bud blossoming into its own unique flower. One looked like a red rose, with golden lace that draped across the folds of its petals. Another was a star-shaped flower with vibrant orange petals that swayed back and forth, as if it was the only one blowing in the breeze.
As I took a closer look at the plant, more and more blossoms began bursting open in rapid succession. One bloomed directly in front of my nose, enveloping me with the smell of peanut butter and marshmallow fluff. I then began to weave my way around, leaning in to catch the scent of each blossom. Some had less than pleasing smells, like the scent of skunk spray or cow manure, but others smelled like honey on buttered toast, the sunscreen I always used before swimming at the beach, and Thanksgiving turkey with corn bread stuffing and mashed potatoes. My favorite flower smelled like my grandparents’ beach house: the salt of the ocean mixed with the scent of my grandmother’s floral soaps.
I heard shouting outside, a car honking, and the sound of a collision, which broke me from my stupor. I made my way through the flowers to look through my window and was surprised to see that it was already nightfall. Dismayed, I left my apartment and wandered the streets, only to find that I recognized nothing. What used to be a corner store that sold deli sandwiches and odds and ends like toilet paper and loose screws was now an upscale cocktail lounge with velvet loveseats and a faux candle-lit chandelier. The multifamily home next to my apartment building had been knocked down and replaced with a condo complex and a sign out front that read: “Luxury 1 & 2 Bedroom Condominiums, Inquire Within.” Even my favorite coffee shop across the street had been replaced with a bank branch.
Somehow my entire neighborhood had been transformed in the time I had spent watching that goddamned plant. I ran back up the two flights of stairs to my apartment unit to demand that the plant explain itself. “What did you do?” I pointed my finger at it, hoping to regain that earlier connection. I don’t know why I expected an answer, perhaps I was losing my mind, but I was certain that this magical plant was to blame.
I grabbed the largest knife in my kitchen and began to hack off the flowers, but as each one fell, another quickly grew back in its place. I tried cutting it at the bottom of the stem, but the knife would not leave a scratch. In desperation, I started slashing at the floorboards, hoping to kill it at the root, but it made no difference. I threw the knife down in defeat, finally conceding that nothing I did would ever bring my city back.
Caitlin O’Halloran is a biracial Filipino-American writer living in Rochester, New York. Her poetry has been published in literary magazines, including ONE ART, confetti, Third Wednesday, The Basilisk Tree, and FERAL: A Journal of Poetry & Art. www.caitlinohalloran.com.