Ice Blossoms

As a child, I was fascinated by pretty things. This translated into a need to preserve life, to preserve beauty. At the Plaza there was a specie of flower whose face was a white petaled globe. In its perfection it appeared fragile, yet it was particularly hard to extract. The stalk’s fuzz would litter my hands as I fought with its deep roots. When I finally managed to tug it out, specks of dirt clinging to its still-live body, I put it in a plastic bag with water and froze it. My freezer became a wonderland of ice pinnacle flowers in plastic bags. I had managed to pry them from the curling fingers of time.

We must abandon time because time should be dead says Sartre, but time is our backbone. It cannot simply cease to exist: we cannot all live in a timeless world.

What if the incessant rain outside my window was those once-frozen flowers, spiraling downwards, having escaped my naïve childhood protection? It does not halt there– it continues its adventures in dirty, less innocent places.

Character-building, always.


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