Ink Showers Make Spring Flowers

The doorbell is ringing. The echo carries down the hall. I cling to the corner
and peer around.
He carries...
A note.
I hold my breath as it rings again. But he waits no more and slides it into a crack under the door and steps down. His face is emotionless.
I was nothing
I was nothing
I am nothing
My fingers creep over my face, shaking.
A car engine revs and gravel crunches, the dog barking behind it, unsure of her job.
My home. It is home no longer.
A distaste for the button on the outside of the door,
A hatred for the chimes in the hallway,
I cannot use those steps again.
I remember the note.
The white lined paper crinkles in the wind. Paper is stronger than it looks. It holds words.
Words will change my life
and my words will change yours.
I rise from my slippery seat on the floor and make my way to the kitchen and take a cinnamon poptart from the box in the pantry. I break off a piece and feel a little better.
I feel the wind through the window screens and the smell of green leaves and spring flows through the house. And rain.
A droplet hits my shoulder as I stand by the sink window.
I want the words to smear. I want them to run through and off the paper as they should drop to my feet.
I want the soil to absorb the thin slice of tree and turn it into a daffodil.
Because there is nothing that could possibly be written there that is any more use than a pretty yellow flower.
I will turn those smears of ink into flowers deeply rooted in my garden.
But I will never know if I don't look.
Daffodils
Tulips
Tigerlillies...black ink...