Bloom by Zachary J. Ferrara
Lucas Silva Pinheiro Photography
There is one night that I remember in particular. It’s the night when you and I laid on the field next to the old town library and looked up at the star-strewn sky. Do you remember the night? I can remember the way the full moon lit your face in the darkness. It was almost like you were up on a stage, the spotlight following your every move, and I the only one in the audience. The seasons had just turned and there was a light breeze in the air. You wanted to go to the field to see if any flowers had grown yet. I told you that it was too early for any flowers to have grown, but we went anyway. I grabbed your hand as we walked along the shortcut through the woods and you clenched my hand with a fearful strength. After not finding a flower, we shook out the old, gray blanket we took from your house onto the ground. You used my sweatshirt as a pillow and I lay beside you, my head propped up by one hand. I don’t remember what we spoke of, but I remember just watching the glow of your eyes every time you smiled. At one point we stopped talking. The light breeze blew through the branches of the trees above us, responsible for rustling up the only sound one could hear at that moment. You turned your head toward me, still silent, and closed your eyes. I first kissed you underneath those stars and that full moon. You kissed me back with a fearful strength.
We never went home that night and when the sun came up over the old town library the next morning, we awakened to a feeling of warmth in the air. The light breeze had stopped blowing and the branches had stopped rustling. You looked different in the morning light. I recognized the glow in your eye as you smiled at me though. I reached over you--over the side of the blanket--and pointed at the bright yellow petals that sat atop a thin stem coming up out of the field. You looked over at it and slid your hand on top of mine. You told me not to pluck the flower from the ground and I didn’t. You told me that you wanted to come back to that very same spot each week to see how the flower had grown and I promised you that we would.
Zachary J. Ferrara