by Ayesha Siddiqui

In the outdoor wildflower garden are what I call ghost flowers. They are mercurial, sprouting overnight, with translucent stems and ugly leaves, like lithe mushrooms in a bad wig. The first time I saw them I was sure they were mushrooms, wondering how they could have sprouted in such a sunny space. And then as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared again, transforming into green stems, folding or shedding their spotted sheer leaves, moving on only hours after they arrived.

My writing is often through a nature focused lens. It makes it sound like I know what I’m doing. That I know how to care for a garden, that on a walk I might casually point out the names of specific plants and trees. That is not actually the case. My cat eats all indoor plants with great enthusiasm so I’ve given up on those. The small outdoor wildflower garden that is “mine” is not tended by me. 

One can be on a close journey with a part of the world without ever needing to be an expert. I’m never going to go inside and google the ghost flowers. There is a part of me that likes walking in mystery with the surrounding world, using my powers of observation not to identify, but to respond.

Sometimes when I feel withered by life, like I have not been watered or sunned, envious of the blooms in a tiny terracotta wildflower garden, it’s because I’ve forgotten to use those powers. The senses that look and listen. To arrive in the world each day with nothing preformed, predetermined, and only an empty sense of readiness. 

When you look at the ghost flowers this way, they are tall, cursed goddesses in torn robes, returning every fortnight only in July to sway below the grapevines and night jasmine, turned back to green stalks by late morning. They are the reason for summer insomnia and restlessness, singing humans awake with songs not heard by ears. When you look at the ghost flowers this way, they are worth so much more than a name.