The Flowers

I remember when you and I used to play in your back garden, singing nursery rhymes, laughing at our silly jokes, and playing in the scorching sun until our faces would melt like the ice lollies in our hands, dripping so fast that it made our hands sticky and wet.

I remember when mum, well your mum, but I liked to call her my mum too; used to make us honey, her homemade honey; she'd always make her warm lemon and honey cupcakes, fresh from the oven; she'd drizzle the golden lusciousness onto the cupcakes, making our mouths water; ready to eat with our tiny fingers. We'd always make a mess.

One day, you asked me a question, "Clarissa," you say, "You know what the flower is called?" you say in your squeaky voice, pointing to the only purple one in the garden. I shake my head in response, "It's called lavender, and it's one of my favourite flowers." The seven year old you said, and you walked away.

One year later, you take me to the same flower again, the same flower that blossomed in your mums garden, vibrant and thriving with colour "This is one of my favourite flowers." You say, again, "I told mummy to plant some more, and she said, anything for you, honey." You smiled at me, and walk away again.

I could remember all this because I kept a diary from the day I could write. Of course the only way I could remember was if I asked you to tell me what happened during the day, and what you remembered when we were little. And ever since I'd always write down everything and anything I could as soon as it happened.

This diary was like a hard drive full of pictures, but in writing; and in each piece of page, was a memory to be remembered.

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We are now sixteen and you take me to your mums garden again, so we can drink our iced tea, and you show me the lavender. Again. "Do you know why this is my favourite flower, Clarissa?" You asked me. This was a question she had never asked. Why? Why is it your favourite flower?

I shake my head, as always.

You tuck a long blonde curl behind your ear, your blue eyes sparkling in the sun, and the smell of your mums cupcakes in the kitchen lingering in my nose.

"It's so different from the rest of the flowers mum grew, I never knew why, but these ones always caught my attention, by their dainty colours and their scents as rich as honey, vibrant and extravagant in colour. It's alluring, like, like watching a flower bloom in a time lapse. It's, different."

"What about a rose?" I say.

"A rose," You pause and look at me in deep thought, and smile, the dimples on your cheeks deepening. Then you giggle softly.

You pick up a lavender, and bring it towards your nose, then brushing it gently to mine. I take in the scent of the floral and sweet smell, and the calming undertones of the flower, my brain finally clicked, it finally played the memories of every single moment we had in this garden; from our precious little sticky hands to this very day.

And so after all these years, that this is what you meant by a lavender. 

Short term memory loss was something I was diagnosed with, cause of my stupid anxiety which didn't get passed down to my mum from my grandma, instead it skipped my mum and ended up on me.

You knew from the very day we were running on our feet, but you didn't run away, like all the other girls did, you always stuck by me. You were always known as the beautiful girl with the blonde hair, and I however, was always known as that girl with a fish brain. I looked up to you, cause I would always think, why on earth would such beautiful person with an amazing personality, be friends with someone like me?