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Charlie's Lucky Charm

Hope

By Felicity HarleyPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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Photo by Daniil Onischenko

I remember the field of flowers below our house. We had all kinds, zinnias, cockscomb, statice, marigolds, plumed celosia, and gladiola. We grew them and we sold them at the Farmers Market.

That was before the great drought came. Before there wasn’t enough water falling from the sky or coming from under the ground. You see we’d changed the climate and there was no going back.

It all happened so quickly. It was like a tall building in an earthquake falling. It crushed us all like small beetles, our fragile wings pinned under giant blocks of concrete.

It was the smell I loved the most as I wandered each morning into our field, which stretched right up to the violet-covered mountains leaning against the horizon. A musky and fruity aroma that brushed against my nostrils and stayed there as I walked amongst the rows of orange and yellow marigolds. Gladioli standing over them like tall sentries keeping watch, swaying slightly in the warm breezes that touched the tips of their red spears.

I would often walk out there in the early morning when the night still clung to the petals, and stand perfectly still to watch the sun rise in front of me, spreading its greedy orange fingers across the alabaster sky. I would wait without moving as it would turn to a rich deep blue. Then I would hear the bees arrive, their furry bodies flashing by me as they flew from stamen to stamen. I would see them clinging onto the flowers like tiny acrobats, and I imagined them sucking up the nectar with their straw-like mouths, collecting it into their crops.

I could almost see the drops of yellow pollen falling from their legs as they did their job perfectly, fertilizing each flower as they passed. Once their crops were full, I knew they would bring the nectar to the hives our family kept behind the house, which produced pounds of honey twice a year. A light honey in mid-summer and a darker one in the fall.

Photo by Faith McDonald

At the end of the summer my mother would dry many of the flowers we grew, putting them together with the sage and juniper, which carpeted the ground in a low jungle of wildness all around us. We would take these bouquets to our family’s stand, and sell them to our regular customers together with fall pumpkins and squash.

I have these vivid memories of this time, the time before, as we travel further and further North. We stayed until the water ran out. Until there was only a rusty trickle coming through the taps. By then our flower field was nothing but a dried, sunbaked stretch of cracked mud.

I indulged myself, Mom said, by watering a single marigold that sprung up at one corner of our parched square of earth. I would pour small amounts of precious water onto it just to keep it alive. I saw it as a kind of hope.

Photo by Clay Banks

My father had cousins who lived in Newfoundland and we decided to try our luck there. We packed up the truck with everything we could fit in it. We took a lot of water with us, enough to last for weeks, but we were trusting we’d find more along the way. We knew big storms would come and we were counting on collecting rain in the buckets we’d stashed in the back of the truck.

Now we’ve been traveling for days. Roads aren’t good and we have to take care along the way, especially about the people we meet, Dad says. It’s so hot, hotter than hell, I guess. The truck isn’t that comfortable and we sweat, my back wet against the leather seats as the arid, dry air blasts through the windows into my face.

Two big storms give us fresh water, so we’re lucky. Came up all of a sudden. The sky turned wicked dark and then thunder cracked so loud I had to cover my ears before lightening broke open the clouds. It let fly jagged spikes onto the ground in front of us, just before the rain poured down in sheets of what Mom called the holy grail.

We found an old barn and spent the night there. I lay wide awake in the soft straw listening to Dad snoring next to me. I was terrified at the sound of the wind whipping the tin roof about above our heads. It made me think it might not hold. It did.

Food we brought with us is all canned and seems to be lasting. Peaches in sweet syrup, even put up ten years ago sure taste good when you’re hot and thirsty.

When we get to Newfoundland, I hope things will be fine. That I won't feel strange. That I'll make friends and maybe play soccer again. It makes me depressed to think about all the things we left behind and the changes that are coming my way.

When I feel real bad I take out the dried, shriveled marigold I brought with me and hold it in my hand. I smell it, savoring it's bitter, musty smell and remember our field in the morning when the sun rose over the mountains.

It’s my lucky charm, I guess.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Felicity Harley

Felicity Harley is a polished public speaker, published journalist, and writer. Along with her career as a nonprofit executive, she served for twenty years on the board of Curbstone Press, an internationally recognized publishing house.

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