╭---ꕥ─────────────────╮

ᴵ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᶠᵒʳᵍᵉᵗ, ᴵ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ⁱᵗ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ'ᵗ ᶠᵃᵈᵉ

ᴵ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵏᵉᵉᵖ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ᵖʰʸˢⁱᶜᵃˡ ᶠᵒʳᵐˢ ᵃʳᵉⁿ'ᵗ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ

ᴵ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᶠᵒʳᵍᵉᵗ, ᴵ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ⁱᵗ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ'ᵗ ᶠᵃᵈᵉ

ᴮᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ʷʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ʳᵉᶜᵒʳᵈᵉᵈ ⁱⁿ ʰⁱˢᵗᵒʳʸ ⁱˢⁿ'ᵗ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ

╰─────────────────⚘---╯

__

I managed to find a cheap hotel room for the night, one with questionable ratings and staff who smoked in the lobby, but it would have to do for now.

The smoke tendrils climbed up to the ceiling, curling their wispy fingers upward and trying to grasp a neck they could wring out the oxygen of. I wondered why the smoke alarm hadn't been set off yet. My eyes roamed around for the device, only to discover there isn't one.

"Room's in the far left."

I didn't even get to say my thanks before the smoke plumes assailed my nose again.

I hated cigarettes.

The woman never bothered to be offended when I covered my nose with the corner of my jacket and left to go find the room, trying to appreciate what little beauty this place had to offer.

'But...'

I sweatdropped at the obscure paintings next to a room's door. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. It looked like a fungus, but the painting's name clearly stated "Ghost in a Flower."

It didn't make sense: every other painting was of either gaudy roses or showy violets. Why was this particular painting the only one of an unattractive "flower"?

My answer came from a wisp of smoke.

"The Monotropa Uniflora, eh?"

It was that woman again, the one at the wooden counter. She killed her stick of death on the worn wood.

Her thick accent was almost as strong as the cigarettes she smoked, "You probably a-wonderin' why ay commissioned faw this here ugly flower painting. 'Ay don't blame y'all. Many folks do."

I looked at the painting again and stared hard at its translucent "petals."

The strange woman continued, "Ay didn't buy it faw its preyttiness. There's an old Native-American legend behaand that there flower."

I should've just left then and there. Hanging around with a crazy middle-aged woman who could've possibly been a witch would've not looked good on my résumé. Yet, despite that, I still listened.

Maybe I just have a knack for people who tell stories.

"The ancient legend done told ov these folk who done lived in cherokee tribes ayn' were selfeysh. They done began ta argue ayn' quarrel with theuurr kinfolk members ayn' later, othuurr tribes. They then smoked ayy peace pipe amawng thay tribes whahl continuing ta argue. The great sperit punished them by a-turnin' them into grey flowers."

I didn't understand a single word she said--something about people quarreling and turning into the flowers in the portrait. But I didn't need to understand. Her look of awe for the painting made her next words much more endearing.

"This here flower is used in medicine too. It's faw patients experiencing intense payn. Except, it doesn't rid ov the payn. It helps the patient come ta terms with the payn ayn' deal with it without a-bein' overwhelmed. It's ayy kind metaphaw, isn't it? Something ya city-slikers would understand bettur."

The woman was right. Pain was essential, no matter how difficult or harsh it is. Pain meant that you were alive, that you were fighting. I then wondered what kind of pain this old woman experienced: if the wrinkles around her eyes ran as deep as her scars.

"M'am...what kind of pain have you gone through?"

She raised an eyebrow, surprised at my curiosity. When she saw that I was unrelenting, she sighed and lit another cigarette, "Ay abandoned my own son."

______

The conversation had ended after that. The five words spoken made the wallpaper dreary-- it made the smoke lingering in the fake floral arrangements staler. I started to turn, but the woman pointed toward another door.

"Naw, ay done decided ta change y'all's room. It's thay ...uhh one by this here painting."

The "Ghost in a Flower" painting.

She must've seen the questions written upon my face. But she didn't choose to acknowledge them.

"Just go, dearie."

I went into my designated room and bid my thanks, wondering if the change really mattered or not.

That was until I opened the door.

Upon entering, my eyes immediately feasted on freshly washed sheets, clean carpets, and neatly drawn curtains. It felt like a completely different dimension, and the doorway was the portal. I look back to make sure it wasn't a dream, and the woman gave me a small smile.

Perhaps she had done this to everyone who listened to her tale.

Or perhaps, she saw right through me--that I possessed markings from the sun.

________

Saturday quickly rolled around as I walked along the hard pavement, wondering how I should show my face to my mother afterward. But nevermind that, how I should face my mother could come later. What mattered more at the moment was the conversation I had with the woman when I left the hotel.

"Thanks faw coming, dearie."

"No, thank you for letting me stay at such a late time."

She proceeded to get out a lighter for a cigarette but stopped herself, presumably remembering the face I made at the scent of smoke.

"Say," she began, tucking the lighter away, "how come y'all done came into this here hovel instead ov a-goin' ovuurr ta y'all's boyfriend's?"

"Oh...I don't have one..."

She raised an eyebrow, "Impossible. Naw one? nahwt even someone y'all like or likes y'all back?"

An image of the man who always smiled flashed across my mind.

"Ah hah! So y'all do!" She pointed at my flushed cheeks, eyes sparkling with fervor.

"Goodbye!" I stuttered out, dashing out of the hotel, only barely managing to hear an "Ay weysh ay was young again."

I thought about my mother.

'No,' I disputed in my head, 'Being young is confusing...'

____

A/N: I tried my best to write dialogue in a heavy southern accent, please tell me if any of them were offensive or inaccurate as I wish that my content brings no harm upon anybody. 

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