In the Language of the Flowers

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✾ Auricula ✾

The cabin was unexpectedly perfect. A stone chimney towered up the side of the building. The entrance wasn't much to look at, but the back opened up with floor to ceiling windows that looked out over a generous porch and a small lake. And it was rustically inspired, with nearly all light-wood interiors. It wasn't as large as I'd been expecting based off of Ai's insinuations, but the wooded land it stood on was extensive and all owned by my family. Mom's family wasn't rich, so the money had to have come from my uncle's side.

I'd called him after we'd landed and loaded into our rental car. It was still dark at the time, and I could barely keep my eyes open, but I wanted to let him know that we'd landed. He spoke to me as though nothing had changed between us. I wasn't entirely sure if anything had, but my gut told me so. Maybe he hadn't acted any differently because finally supporting me was just a realization of a desire he'd always harbored. But our relationship felt easier.

After I'd hung up, Ren took my hand and smiled at me. He was still holding my hand when he  later woke me up from the inevitable sleep I drifted into. He asked me where the hell we'd ended up and we promptly spent another half hour trying to find the cabin on twisting backroads flanked by tall pines. 

After unlocking the door, Ren grabbed my arm and tossed me over his shoulder, carrying me over the threshold like a bride. He'd laughed about it, and I'd smacked his back angrily. The whole thing ended in a kiss. 

It had been a whirlwind twenty four hours. Actually, everything had felt non-stop since I'd met Ren. He just made my life interesting, I suppose. 

And now I was standing on the dock, hands in my pockets. The lake was still. The blinking of fireflies occasionally penetrated the darkness. I closed my eyes and listened to the crickets, enjoying the crisp spring air away from the city. A genuine sense of place settled into my skin, so different from the one I felt in our tiny apartment back home. The city made me feel small in a crowded sort of way. It was busy there. 

I still felt small in California, but it was because of the sheer size of the rolling hills and the chorus of whispers from the rustling trees. Back home I felt bizarrely connected to people, even to strangers. It was like we were all walking our paths alongside each other, all going our own paces and meeting at fateful intersections. Here, I felt connected to the whole world, to the air I breathed and the moonlight wrapped around me. It reminded me of the beaches in Florida. 

I thought of the time my dad taught me how to build a sandcastle to hold up better against the tide. 

As the water lapped against the wood of the dock, I remembered the lyrics of a song mom told me dad used to love. My quiet humming was nearly lost beneath the sound of the lake meeting the land. 

"What are you singing?" 

I turned. The lights from the house flooded the lawn behind him, leaving him only a silhouette. "It's nothing. I wasn't singing." 

"You looked lost in thought," he said. 

I sighed and looked up at the flood of stars in the sky, so clearly defined. "It's something my dad used to sing." 

Ren stood quietly beside me. I smiled at him. "It's a sad song," I said. 

"Why's it sad?" he asked. 

"The wee bird may sing and the wild flowers spring. And in sunshine the waters are sleeping. The broken heart will ken nae second spring again. So the world does not know how we're grieving," I recited. The song lost some of its charm without its music, but I'd never had a good singing voice.