By Victoria Qiu (9) | STAFF REPORTER
I’ve always loved the city.
Bustling roads with gleaming street lights, the comforting chaos of navigating the crowded streets. The vendors and their stalls, the little cafés and coffee shops, even the crosswalks littered with everyday items. A pack of tissues, some newspaper clippings, occasionally a hair tie or even a bracelet left on the path.
In a big city like mine, wildlife is very rare. You may see a few scattered saplings here and there, or even a large oak once in a while. In addition to all the pampered city pets, a few strays also roam the streets. They usually don’t bite, but petting one isn’t too smart either. My complex overlooks a large lake, and occasionally I can see the faint silhouettes of geese and ducks floating on the serene water. During the autumn, I can even hear them honking before their migration.
Besides the flower shops with their perfectly tailored flowers, it’s rare to come across any sort of wildflower in the city. In fact, thinking about it now, I think there are only two that come to mind. The wild daisies, the childhood favorite of making crowns and jump ropes. While I adore their simplicity and beauty, it doesn’t catch my eye as much as the other flower does.
You can find forget-me-nots in little cracks and crevices at the side of the road, very close to some shops we all know and love. You know, the little blue flowers that you see in your neighborhood but never knew the name for. While they aren’t as large as the daisies, and aren’t subjectively prettier, there’s something about the name “forget-me-not” that resonates with me. I read once that when God was naming all the flowers, the forget-me-not called out as it was scared of being forgotten. In response, God coloured it blue, the rarest colour in nature.
You know, the city is filled to the brim with noise and busy people, rushing to get wherever they need to be. Yet, if one stops for even a minute, one may notice how the flowers look the exact same from dawn to dusk. It’s almost as if nature stood still and watched the everyday lives of thousands go on, no one even sparing a glance in their direction. To think of them as souls, of patient spirits watching over the city, is oddly comforting in a way.
Just like the leftover items on the crosswalk, what if the flowers are slowly being forgotten? Maybe they all represent some lost fantasy we used to have. Maybe it still lives in the back of our heads, and maybe it’s screaming to be seen again. On the path, the journey of life, it must be filled with thousands of forget-me-nots. After all, how many dreams have faded, how many hopes have vanished, how many friends or items have you left behind while you walked on?
Maybe I’m just overthinking this. In the big city, I don’t often get to think beyond the present moment. Sometimes I envy the flowers, just sitting and observing. But then again, I’m glad for my busy life. I’m glad I’m made of memories, and I’m glad that I can stop to appreciate the beauty of the little flowers on my way.
That way, they’ll know that at least someone hasn’t forgotten them just yet.
