Hyacinthus orientalis
Hyacinths Always bloomed in my garden , year after year after year . I used to snatch them from the ground , their roots Torn , dangling and swinging in the air , Without purpose .
I tied them up into precious bundles , With grass so fresh my fingers would be tinged green . The stems would become slightly bent , slightly browned and bruised , And in my desperate attempt to undo my mistakes , I would ruffle the petals from perfection , watching them drop , float , sink , into a sea of grass .
I handed them to my parents , the inner corners of my eyebrows ever so slightly upturned at the sight of the imperfections .
Then , they would recount to me how hyacinths came to be , How they were rumoured to grow with the salt of a god ’ s tears which shone in raw memory of his love .
‘ So don ’ t rip them out anymore , okay ? They bloom in the absence of a friend , and without them , loneliness would befall . Regret would blossom .’
I never plucked out any hyacinths after that .
Ting Zhao
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