She always pressed the flowers that she found.
On the ground, the soggy ones from the torrential rain,
Or even the well groomed roses in her prissy neighbor Mrs. Lopez’s front yard. She had this obscure belonging to them. Like if she let one go untouched, or unloved, or unpressed, they would be forever without that something that she gave them.
I wanted to know what she did with them besides put them between book pages, because what would they be utilized for, if not something simple and explainable?
She told me they had more purpose than anything I could put together with my hands;
They were nature’s inventions, and would forever stay crisp and remembered by her, and Emily Dickinson,
And Kurt Vonnegut,
And Mark Twain.
I told her that it was silly, how could she look back on each one and be just as cathartic every time, no let up, no pay off?
She told me I asked too many questions. That I should start pressing my own flowers.