2002-09-13 || 11:45 a.m.

|| mrs powers and mrs lefferdink ||

when we were little my mum would send us off to school with a flower from the garden for our teachers. she would hand us the scissors and we would solemnly walk out in a single file procession into the backyard to find the perfect rose or camelia or orchid. we'd find the perfect ones, the ones with no brown edges or eaten leaves, the ones that could have little sweet faces if you squinted your eyes hard enough, and bring them back in, blowing stray dirt and aphids from the petals. mum would bandage the stems with a wet paper towel wrapped in tin foil. by the time we got to school the petals would be creased in places, missing altogether in others, and we'd have the tell-tale polleny signs of deep flower inhalation on the tips of our noses. the teachers were always delighted, would carefully unwrap the foil and napkin slowly with fancy lady fingers, and place the flowers in coffee mugs and murky vases. and all throughout the day, through spelling tests and dictation and math problems, we could look up at the desk and see the flower sitting there, winking at us with that flowery face, and fight the urge to wave at it with a secret single pinky finger.

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