Dear Sister,
The flowers bloomed all by themselves, overnight. Nobody has planted anything in that part of the garden, except for the body of poor Peter, who was so fond of seeds, and my daughter insists that the flowers grew from its belly. I’m not sure how acidic rodent stomachs are, so I can’t really dismiss her idea. It stands however that nobody ever fed the rabbit rhododendron seeds. It’s our new mystery. How is your health?
Dear Sister,
The postman has been lagging lately. I look forward to hearing from you two. Here the flowers have grown to the size of cabbages. Whenever one fully opens it drops from its center a pearly milk tooth. I collected them all and they are the same size and number my daughter has shed. I began to wonder what the rest of the buds held: more baby teeth from other children? A newborn’s clipped nails, perhaps? No, eventually they produced a series of small toy cars, made of tin. They are beautiful to look at. My husband said he used to have toys exactly like these when he was young, but lost them during a move. He picked up a little firetruck with chipped paint and cried. I insisted we gave them to the orphanage, and now I’m afraid I should have let him keep them – he gets this faraway look now at dinner, as if he can no longer see us. When are you due? I think about you every day.
Dear Sister,
The rhododendron throws now enough shade to sit under. My daughter and I have set up a little table there and have lemonade when it gets too hot. The flowers have drawn the hummingbirds, and the hummingbirds have drawn a fine summer warmth. They’ve proven amazing for weather prediction. Whenever we see one fly low by the grass we know it’s time to gather the laundry, because rain invariably follows.
The blossoms have not stopped giving things, except that it’s rare now that a new bud will appear. Once there was a series of small porcelain shepherdesses, which shattered upon falling on the ground. We put a pillow under a budding flower one night and the following morning we found the last shepherdess intact. In her hollow base was a folded banknote, but I don’t recognize the currency. I’m enclosing it to you as a memento.
I was overjoyed to hear your baby boy was born yesterday. I hope that you’ll have a speedy recovery. On the day he was born no new flowers opened, and I think it’s because they were unable to give a gift to match yours.
Dear Sister,
The rhododendron is already aging, and hardly a month has passed. It’s large enough to throw its shade in the living room, which makes it cool in the warm afternoons. I water it daily now. Nothing new has come in days. My daughter says it’s because the flowers learned of your passing. Though I can’t imagine how. I only just found out myself.
Dear Sister,
Sometimes I peer into the blossoms and imagine I can see you looking back. Who feeds your son?
Dear Sister,
The rhododendron is now a shriveled thing, raining petals that smell sickly sweet. The garden underneath it is like a queen’s carpet. My daughter gathers them by the fistfuls, we dry them in the sun and keep them in a bowl. I used to keep the bowl in the bedroom but every time I fell asleep I dreamt I was walking in a snowy forest, looking for something I can never remember, and when I would wake up my slippers were always dirty and wet and my hair full of pine needles. There aren’t any pine trees around here. Afterwards I put the bowl in the kitchen. It made the tap water taste like port wine, which I enjoyed but my family didn’t, so I put it in the front porch. As I’m writing to you now sparrows have landed on the rim and peck at the brown mass within. It turns them into hummingbirds, and as they fly away in confusion the whole garden is buzzing with the sound of their tiny wings.
Dear Sister,
The bowl is almost empty. I picked the last petals and put them in a cup of boiling water, let it brew, and drank it. I was alone in the house.
Then you were sitting next to me, by the kitchen counter. The front of your dress was stained at the breasts. You looked parched, so I offered you my cup. You drank it all, looked at me and asked to give your son a kiss when I visited. Then you got up and walked out into the garden. I never saw you again.
Dear Sister,
You’d be happy to know that the baby looks just like you when you were little. He’s growing fast. They visit us often now. We uprooted the dried rhododendron, and cleaned out the garden. It had grown unexpectedly thick. The three of us worked for weeks, and finally made the wood into a baby swing. It was just the right size.
Clio Velentza lives in Athens, Greece. She's a winner of Queen’s Ferry Press’ Best Small Fictions 2016 and was anthologized in “Rethinking The Plot” (Kingston University Press, 2016). Her fiction and non-fiction has appeared in several literary journals, including “Whiskey Paper”, “Literary Orphans”, “The Vignette Review” and “Wigleaf”. Find her at @clio_v.