Tulip...

Mrs Fosteriana...

Tulip in the night of course...

Mrs Fosteriana's favorite distraction...

Tulip

For the most part, she kept to herself, well, she had no choice I’d say, she was a flower, and Tulip was her name. Tulip lived in a flower box, attached to a granite sill, beneath a large window that was part of a large townhouse, on Mulberry Street.

Some clover had lived near her in the box, but they found it a tough go with the erratic watering schedule they had to endure. 

Tulip could trace her bulb all the way back to the Ottoman Empire, and the mid-16th century when her family was first introduced to Europe.

Early this April, Tulip turned eight-years old. It was her second year blooming from a bulb, and she was so proud of herself, she was throwing a party to honor the event.

*

Years ago she’d traveled from the Netherlands aboard a great ship. She’d arrived in the city during a nasty blizzard, and was almost lost amongst bags of licorice root.

Eventually, she found her way into a cheap terra pot. Despite her surroundings, Tulip was purchased, and placed on a table in the kitchen of the townhouse were she now resides.

Mrs. Fosteriana, was her guardian, and she was very fastidious. Tulip, thought her partially, too enthusiastic. Mrs. Fosteriana fed Tulip only refrigerated water which she insisted on pouring along Tulip’s stem!  

Every other morning, after making herself a steeping cup of Twinings, Lapsang Souchong, she’d retrieve an awful, battered, Chianti bottle from the ice-box.

Then she’d coo and whisper:

“Oh, my sweet darlin’, you’ll have a sip with Mary this mornin’”, and she’d proceed to pour too much ice-water along Tulip’s stem until she felt such a shiver in her bulb, she thought she’d almost scream.

That would have been enough to stop Mrs. Fosteriana’s heart dead in mid-beat. 

Mrs. Fosteriana liked to dance alone in the kitchen after consuming almost half a bottle of Chianti. It was a bane to Tulip, a never ending supply of water bottles. After they’d rendered their contents to Mrs. Fosteriana, they were re-birthed at the tap.

Mrs. Fosteriana started many dinners and then fell asleep at the table after finishing a lengthy waltz en solo. Tulip endured varieties of many types of smoke. Burning beef smoke was probably the most pungent of all, but it did tend to wake Mrs. Fosteriana faster than boiling water.

Apart from all her foibles, she was a decent guardian of Tulip’s meager needs.

 Tulip was placed at different times on the sill over the sink. From here, she could smell the city if the window were open, and usually it was, according to what was over-cooked.

She was most sorry for the skinny maples in the street below. Most of these furry creatures on tethers, stopped to spray their stems, just as Mrs. Fosteriana would do. Tulip thought it odd their guardians felt the maples might enjoy this constant watering. She sensed one day she might like to move to the other side of the wall, where the water sometimes fell from the sky.

*

On a particularly cold morning, one late spring day. Tulip sat on the sill above the sink. It had been three days since she’d been down to the kitchen table. She even missed her cold overdose of morning water. Nothing moved in the kitchen, only shadows as the sun toured the sky.

Then, on the afternoon of the fourth day, there were strangers moving in and out of the kitchen.

They were loud talkers. One of them washed his hands in the sink, after blowing grey smoke in Tulip’s petals. She winced as he jammed a burning object into the soil surrounding her.

Mrs Fosteriana would never have allowed this. 

Tulip missed her.

Four more days, and one more night passed by the window. Tulip was very thirsty and the edges of her leaves were beginning to turn brown.

She envied the maples in the street, at least the tethered animals brought water to them on a regular schedule.

On the fifth morning, a young girl entered the kitchen. Water ran from her eyes and Tulip was confused. Water seemed to come from everywhere. She wished she could make her own, as this girl did, maybe then, she wouldn’t need a guardian. But she thought, Mrs. Fosteriana was more than just a bringer of cold water. She was a friend, she was kind to Tulip.

The girl wiped precious water from her eyes. She took a deep breath and looked about the kitchen. Tulip looked with her. She seemed to be absorbing all that entered her eyes, maybe she was filling with more water, thought Tulip.

And sure enough, when her eyes fell upon Tulip, more water came.

Tulip was happy because the girl came to her. She pulled the darkened piece of filth from Tulip’s home, and threw it out the window.

She pulled and tucked at the soil of Tulip’s home. No one had done this before, not even Mrs. Fosteriana.

The girl ran water from the tap, into the cup Mrs. Fosteriana drank her tea from. She tipped the purple mug, and Tulip couldn’t feel anything. The girl continued to pour water into Tulip’s home, it never touched her stem.

Tulip almost felt a smile come to her petals, and just as she did, the girl smiled at Tulip for the first time today.

“I’m Mary, Tulip,” said the girl, named Mary, and Tulip wondered how she’d known her name.

Mary moved Tulip to the new window box on the other side of the wall. She was out in the place that seemed right. The sun warmed Tulip and made her feel strong, and just when she thought she may be thirsty, water came from the sky.

Tulip felt, somehow, Mary was a branch, or stem of some kind from Mrs. Fosteriana. They laughed the same way, and danced, happily alone.

*

Tulip sat happy in her flower box. Her party was just about to begin. Flowers from other window boxes across the street, and down the block, looked on. The skinny Maples stood tall and regal.

Tulip felt the rush of “inside air” flush against her petals, as the old window yawned behind her. Mary was there, and nothing felt better than a gurgle of cold water from an old Chianti friend.

The End

GJH 10