Written by, Tracy A.
Where Are My Flowers?
I planted them with my trusty bong beside me, tilling the soil in defiance of a brutal desert. My roses, lilies, and posies of every kind bloomed while I toked. I nursed a green lawn and shaded trees through searing heat, conjuring a cool, fragrant world out of cracked earth — a world entirely of my own making.
But the man who paid for those flowers grew tired of competing with my bong. So I left him. I left the lawn, the gardens, all of it — and ran. I wanted to toke in peace, and the only thing I took with me was my weed.
Then it stopped working.
I was alone in a cold, dark place. All the weed I could smoke, ingest, and vape brought no light. That black hole swallowed years.
One day, during relentless rain and biting wind, a small, exhausted voice rose up from somewhere inside me: You are not dead yet. Try to live.
So I tried. My most precious companion went into the trash. Newfound friends cheered me through sweats and chills and sleepless nights. I love these friends. They tell me that weed will never work for me again — and I believe them.
The flowers, the lawn, the trees I abandoned are all dead now, I’m told. The desert reclaimed its land as though I had never existed. The world I made is nothing but memory.
Today, I noticed the hydrangeas are in bloom — huge blue globes appearing up and down the street. Rhododendrons tower above azaleas, lighting up the sky. Bluebells dance with buttercups, while strawberries and asters cover the naturally lush ground.
These are the world’s flowers. But they are also mine, because I am in the world. No toil is required of me to admire their beauty. They belong here — and now, so do I.
