Every year it’s the same

Every year it’s the same. The same wonderful process of the blooming iris. Every day after or before school, starting around the beginning of April, I hop happily to my small garden and observe the beautiful flower as it grew. Some years, it blooms fully. Some years, it doesn’t bloom at all. But no matter what, it has been somewhat of a tradition for me. I would sit out there for hours drawing, talking on the phone, doing homework, or just laying out in the sun with my beautiful iris. My mother gave me the small rock garden about five years ago, and while she had ninety percent of the backyard for her garden, her iris was never as gorgeous as mine. I had so much pride in that flower… I would show it off to my friends, even though they didn’t care. I would draw pictures of it, doodle it in my notebook, squirming eagerly to get home to visit it.

I don’t know what happened this year.

The beginning of the school year brought the most drastic change of my life. I realized how I had been pretending to be someone I wasn’t for my entire life up until that point to impress my family and fit in with them. When I started acting like myself, they rejected me completely. Even some of my friends stopped hanging out with me. Boys started flowing in and out of my life, bring tears, laughter, love, stress, and confusion. My grades were always different, and I soon enough blamed all the shit in my life on myself. I did a lot of things I don’t talk about… things I shouldn’t have done but felt obligated to do to punish myself. Well, May is kind of the last month of all the drama. With the end of the school year coming, stresses are one by one being relieved, I’ building up lost friendships, and I’ve finally learned to control my actions towards myself.

The other day, I woke up to my alarm, like every other morning. I got dressed, grabbed a piece of toast, brushed my teeth, and was ready to leave. My brothers told me to go wait in the car for them, and my mom was leaving then, too. I walked out of my back door and down the familiar stone steps, my mom sipping her coffee behind me, telling me when she’d pick me up from school. She stopped mid sentenced and breathed in a small gasp. I turned suddenly to see what was wrong. She was staring, wide eyed at the tall, glorious, iris, it’s purple flower reaching towards the sky, as though it might very soon reach heaven. She told me she’d never seen it so pretty before. I dropped my backpack and walked over to the flower. I just stood there, staring at it, not wanting to touch it in fear of it breaking.

I had been so caught up in friendship dramas, grades, high school preparations, balancing my lifestyle, and family issues, that I hadn’t taken one minute that entire April to sit by the flower. And yet there it stood, beautiful as ever. It was as if it was assuring me that it understood my problems, and it was there for me. Like even though I hadn’t been with it, it was with me. I sat down and was silent for a moment before I noticed I was crying. It came at the perfect time… a time where I needed a friend and felt like anyone I’d ever loved hated me. A time where I couldn’t do anything right, and everyone seemed distant. Yet in the midst of it all, ignoring the French quiz that day, the current fight I was in with my friend, the fact that my brother and I weren’t speaking, and the fact that I couldn’t figure out myself, I felt comfort. I was transfixed on the iris, its green leaves flowing gracefully along the stem, leading to the lovely flower.

Now, everyday, I visit the flower. I sit next to it, talking on the phone, doing homework, drawing, or just resting. I observe it carefully every day, to find it’s stopped growing for now. But it doesn’t matter. Now it’s my time to grow.