The gentle breeze caressed my 3rd petal.
I never thought I would say that.
Or think it, because flowers don't talk!
I don't belong as a flower. I mean, maybe I could have been reincarnated as, say, a vicious thistle. Or a vibrant strawberry plant.
I enjoyed being Hedge much more, but now I pretty much am a hedge. Coach Hedge, the tough love coach for delinquits and just plain idiots. It was much more...well, masculine than Hedge, the sweet-smelling daisy flower. In the Field of Dreams. Who in the heck calls a field the Field of Dreams? At least, like, the Field of Happiness. That, even, would be better than the Field of Dreams.
It was so uneventful. My biggest accomplishment in a dreadful length of twenty-seven days as a freaking daisy was growing a leaf. Not even a poky, spiked leaf or anything that made me anything more than something getting thrown at a wedding.
I could have been a tree. Or maybe a - anything. Anything but a freaking flower!
My most traumatic experience so far (yes, even flowers have traumatic experiences) was when a four-year-old tried to violently uproot me between the deadly grasp of her meaty, grubby fingers.
Most call it 'picking flowers.'
She saw me, and her face lit up suddenly, switching her spoiled-rotten frown for a stupid, five-toothed grin.
And then she reached down. It was all in slow-mo, like something out of a horror movie. My life as a flower flashed before my eyes - when it was rainy and I almost floated away, when I got stepped on, when a flower grew altogether too-close, violating my personal space...every dirty bit.
But luckily, she saw a spider or something, and she started screaming and ran away to her father, who promised to buy her a tub of ice cream. I'm just guessing there.
And at a close second, when a dog peed on me. I saw him drink way too much water from that fountain, but there was nothing I could do anyway. Just sway, sway in the breeze and amuse small pudgy children.
And it came over and backed right up into me and lifted his leg. I tried to hold my breath, but it's not like that. I have little tiny pores all over me that breath in the air, so I literally can't hold my breath. I don't know if that dog had mexican food or soda earlier, but it was so foul-smelling - I almost withered right then and there.
But no, the horror doesn't stop.
You think being a flower is easy? Guess again, cupcakes.