Purple Petals

Lila opened her eyes with a sharp breath, as though she’d surfaced from deep water. Pine needles. Damp earth. The air smelled clean enough to drink. Her skin was slick with sweat, and grains of sand clung to her cheeks when she wiped at them.

She tried to focus, but the darkness refused to let go.

No moon tonight, she thought.

Then the scent of lavender drifted across her face.

Her head rested against newly spun silk.

The darkness dissolved, and she slipped back to sleep.

Before she crawled into the blanket fort, she bent to breathe in the lavender. The fragrance lingered.

“Mommy, bring Mr. Penguin for tea and cookies.”

She glanced down.

Mr. Penguin was already in her hands.

Laughing, she lifted the blanket.

Dust motes drifted through shafts of afternoon light, and her little voice burst with delight.

“Surprise!”

A cardboard box. Mismatched teacups circled a plate of peanut butter cookies, while a crocheted blanket had been carefully spread across the top as a tablecloth.

“Welcome to Mr. Penguin’s birthday party, Mommy.”

She crawled inside.

The blanket arched overhead, close enough to brush her hair. Through the weave she could make out blurred patches of sunlight and the indistinct sway of branches beyond the fabric. It smelled faintly of lavender, peanut butter, and laundry soap. Small. Safe. Sheltered.

A tiny teacup was pressed into her hands. The expectation to drink from it needed no words.

She lifted it with all the seriousness the occasion deserved, earning a delighted giggle from her daughter.

As she sipped chamomile, drowsiness stole over her with the gentle certainty that only an afternoon beside her daughter could bring. She lay down next to her as the blanket slowly sagged between them, softening the light until the world beyond became little more than muted silhouettes.

Lila closed her eyes.

And drifted to sleep.

She woke again with a violent gasp.

This time the air was hot.

She pulled in another breath, but it never felt like enough.

She tried to sit.

Something stopped her.

Thunk.

Pain flared across her forehead.

Her hand flew upward.

Her fingertips grazed rough grain.

Wood.

Barely inches above her face.

She pushed harder.

It didn’t move.

Her other hand searched to the left.

Wood.

To the right.

Wood again.

Her elbows had nowhere to go.

She couldn’t roll over.

She couldn’t even draw her knees to her chest.

She swallowed hard before opening her mouth.

Nothing but a thin, ragged whisper escaped.

“Here, Mommy.”

Winnie handed Lila an afghan square. Her grandmother had crocheted them for the local animal shelter. Cream swirled with moss green and warm browns, the colors of a spruce trunk flecked with lichen.

“Why do they call it bark, Mommy?”

“Doggies bark, trees don’t.”

Laughing, they pressed their palms against the ridged bark. 

“Maybe it’s a different kind of bark,” Lila said. “Dogs bark to protect themselves from danger. Trees have bark to protect themselves from the weather.”

“Does it hurt them when we touch them?”

“No, sweet girl. I think everything alive needs a gentle touch now and then.”

“Maybe that’s why there’s wind.”

The trunk was rough beneath her fingertips, its furrows catching bits of lichen and windblown dust.

Lila leaned her cheek against the tree and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, the branches no longer belonged to the spruce.

Dark timber stretched inches above her face.

The scent of resin and sap faded beneath hot, stale air.

She tried to breathe.

Her mouth was dry and tasted of copper.

Blood.

The metallic taste spread across her tongue as she swallowed.

She reached for her mouth. Her upper lip was tacky. When her fingers brushed the bridge of her nose, pain shot through her face.

Broken, she thought.

Blood running down the back of her throat.

She swallowed against the dryness. Thirst set in. 

A tiny hand slipped into hers.

A kiss lingered against her forehead.

When she opened her eyes, the mossy floor remained beneath her. Teacups lay scattered on their sides.

“Winnie?” 

She looked around but her daughter was no longer pouring tea for Mr. Penguin. 

Only the soft whistle of wind moved through the blanket fort.

The afghan was missing. The cardboard box exposed. 

The loosely draped blanket no longer billowed with laughter and whispered conversations. It lay heavily over the empty fort, abandoned.

She remembered her daughter’s laugh before she remembered her face. 

She remembered the scent of lavender before she remembered the word.

She pressed against the wooden wall one last time.

Instead of breaking outward, the wall softened.

Moisture seeped through.

Somewhere above her, something had remembered to rain.

Life stirred.

Somewhere beyond the darkness, rain lingered in the soil before slipping downward in slow, searching threads.

She no longer remembered why she had been afraid.

Only that she once had been.

Her name drifted beyond reach. Faces had gone before it. 

Language had followed. 

The sharp edges of being human softened until they became impressions more than thoughts.

Gentle fingers pinching a stem. A smile she could almost recognize.

The memory wasn’t hers.

Or perhaps it had never belonged to only one life.

Far above, an old tree stretched its boughs.

Its roots reached into the darkness where fungi threaded through the earth like living lace.

They carried water, minerals, warnings of drought, whispers of insects chewing distant leaves.

And something else.

The weight of a blanket tied between low branches.

The laughter of a little girl pouring warm tea into tiny cups.

A woman lowering herself inside, breathing in lavender before closing her eyes.

The tree had stood over them. 

Nearby, the purple petals bloomed each summer from the same patch of earth where a single flowering wand had once been laid beside still fingers.

Rain gathered among the blossoms before slipping into the soil.

A child’s laughter without a face.

Bark beneath gentle hands.

Chamomile.

A blanket settling between two people who had almost fallen asleep.

The shell surrounding her grew softer.

A pale root pressed outward.

The earth welcomed it.

In that first impossible moment of contact, impressions rushed through her—not words, not images, but the quiet certainty of having been loved.

Above her, sunlight filtered through leaves she had never seen.

Below, the forest continued telling its stories, one root to another. 

A single mustard seedling listened, its stem pointed toward a familiar face.

“Hi mom, it’s me.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit.”

Tears welled. 

“I just wanted to tell you I’m getting married.”

“His name is Adrian.”

She paused for a moment. Tissue pressed against her nose. Her fiancé knelt beside her and rested a hand against the small of her back.

“We’re going to have a baby.”

“It’s a girl.” 

She laughed, then hiccuped trying to hold back the emotions. 

“I promise to tell her the story of the mustard seed.”

“Mr. Penguin.”

“I promise to build blanket forts here and plant flowers in memory of you.” 

In that moment something inside the seed leaned toward the sound.