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Campus Flowers
Hanna Wilkens
A few weeks ago I was studying late at the library and decided I needed a break. It was nearly 10pm, and the dense heat of early September had loosened and made way for a warm, comfortable 80 degrees. It’s my favorite time to walk around campus—the freshman skittering around in going out clothes, headed to University with fake IDs, feeling jittery with excitement and rebellion. Leisure bike rides and walks and a few students throwing a frisbee back and forth. I headed aimlessly back to my old dorm on Highland Ave, the walk still engraved in me although I haven’t lived there in two years. Walking through the pathway between dorm buildings, I looked up at my old window. I wondered who lived there now. If they were adjusting alright. I hope they’re adjusting alright. I turned to look at the Hibiscus plant growing in direct view of my old window. It’s bright purple petals folding inward on one another. I used to find such comfort in them. Those first months away from home, I’d look out at the flowers when I was feeling lonely and tell myself they were a sign. A sign that I was in the right place.
That year I’d taken a liking to using flowers as indications that I was making the right choices. It started with a visit to Arizona my senior year of high school. My favorite flowers are poppies, although I rarely see them in real life. We used to have a big painting of them hanging outside my childhood bedroom and I suppose I’ve always associated them with home. Then, somewhere on the highway between Phoenix and Tucson, I spotted them, sprouting along the black tar in daring patches of gold. It felt like a message.
The hibiscus flowers, though, belong to a different memory. My grandfather used to grow them in his garden in Florida, and every time I visited he’d pick one of the flowers and place it behind my ear, and I’d wear it there for the rest of the trip. The last time I saw him he picked two: one for behind my ear, and one that he placed on the dash of our rental car before we left. It wasn’t until we were pulling out of the driveway that I noticed it, and I turned around to wave goodbye to him. That was the last time I ever saw him. Later, staring at the hibiscus outside my dorm window, I liked to think that the flowers were a gift from him. A symbol that I was doing the right thing—that I was moving forward and making a life of my own.
That night, walking around campus, I picked one of the hibiscus flowers and tucked it behind my ear. Then I proceeded to walk all around the south side of Old Main, pocketing flowers in my jeans. When I got home I pressed them in a book and later made them into cards I plan to give to my friends and family on their birthdays. Maybe for them, the flowers will mean something too.
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