M. J. Young

A Nocturne for the Flowers

After the hurricane passed my mother wanted to return her saint statues to the garden. Though two in the morning she said her flowers needed all the protection they could get. We carried Saint Francis and Saint Michael and Saint Cecila, untouched by the winds, from the mat behind the front door to the yard but didn’t know where to put them. Our flashlights disclosed the fruits of the storm: a rime of sticks and leaves crusting the flower beds; the white vinyl of the fence bent inwards, stopped from crushing the remaining plants by bare trellises; pools of water holding petals we didn’t recognize. The roses were bowed and the hydrangeas were stripped and the bird of paradise—unearthed, lying in the street amid clumps of dirt, its roots on display and curled into themselves, too tender for the air—obscene. And there was my mother searching for something to salvage, mud in the lines of her knuckles, unable to kneel in the planters for fear of sinking. Her garden was unrecognizable. Hours weeding, collecting sweat and stems alike. Her parishioner-esque evening obligation to watering. Her careful study of weather and temperature. All undone. We placed the saints in the debris—let them be the ones to pray.