Giselle Maya

A Bulb Discarded

One of my neighbors is a striking woman who works in a dress shop. At times her hair is blond, at others raven black. She is well-spoken, polite and impeccably groomed.

Her son is always home. Now and then he blasts rap music into the quiet village. In front of her entrance door, my neighbor keeps silk geraniums and wisteria. She takes them indoors when rain is announced. Now and then real flowers blossom and wilt within a short span of time.

I found a large chafed bulb tossed into the public flower box, discarded when it had stopped blooming. I took it home and planted it in dark potting soil, watering it and waiting.

Tiny leaves sprouted in autumn. One day I saw tiny furled buds appear. On the window sill in partial sun they grew. A salmon-hued bud unfolded into the first flower on New Year’s day.

I wanted to show the plant to my neighbor, but hesitated. Would she care? In the end I felt that here was someone to look at and greet politely from a distance and for the moment I had no wish to get to know her better.

winter morning
in the late rising sun
a cyclamen unfolds