A Letter to My Daughter

I remember pulling weeds in the garden for the first time, my mother standing over me making sure I didn’t accidentally pull out a tulip or one of the pansies, as if I couldn’t tell the difference between the jagged, dark green weeds – some of them with those prickers that stick in your skin for days if you forget to wear gloves – and the sweet-smelling purple and red pansies that are so frail they’d die if you squeezed them even a bit, the same pansies I planted in the freshly churned soil that I scattered crushed pistachio shells all over to keep away the snails, the same ones I still plant today…in the same kind of pistachio-laden, snail-free soil, with the same green- and white-striped gloves that I wore then (but a bigger size), only now my mother isn’t hanging over my shoulder, and I realize the pansies would never have bloomed without her.

Author’s Note: I am a 21-year-old English student at the University of Wisconsin – Eau Claire. I’m currently enjoying the summer reprieve, but I’ll begin my fourth year in the fall. I love writing in what I’d consider unconventional formats.