Plant stories

The Blue Bells that sprout every Spring along my front steps tell me that someone before me planted bulbs. Or, maybe an animal carried them in, or the wind. There are many old Rose bushes around my house. My mom has told me many times I can not get rid of those old roses. Some one planted those too. On each side of the walk way, under the front window. And the Apple tree and the Japanese Pear tree and the Cherry tree, some one planted those too.

These trees and flowers do not tell me their story. They are there when I look growing. I trim them, their leaves fall. I cut the rose back from blocking the stairs. I avoid it’s thorns. I trim the roses around the time my mom tells me it is time to trim the roses. They bloom but not for that long. I do not fertilize them or water them in the dog days of summer. I love the way they smell. And how thee petals of the fat ones feel almost like velvet, almost like satin.

Talking to my neighbor, the one that is friendly, he has told me a little about the history of the house. The years of renters before I moved in. And before that, a Japanese family, he thinks, and before that, a Chinese family, he thinks. He remembers the back yard being "all set up" when he was a kid. The apple tree must have been no taller then him, and the pear tree too. But the plants did not tell me these histories. My neighbor did. What story do these plants tell me?

Nothing directly. The wind does not form words through their leaves or, their stems and trunks. Their roots communicate beneath me, I move around them.