Leading up to her Oma’s death, X began collecting plants to line her hospital room every room every chance she got to go outside. She wept when she found out and began writing letters to the indentured matriarch who took her to the woods and taught her of the plants and how to press them in books. The parts of the family mystery & misery within her were lost forever, she would never get to ask about the family her Oma thought sought to kill her that X also suspected of trying to take her own life, or the chip she supposedly felt certain that the Nazis had placed in her brain and sought to reclaim, or whatever else she thought she was protecting the children from by not mentioning. She wrote letters and sang prayers to her Oma, of blessings from the departure from her isolation and pain, of gratitude for saying the offensive things she thought we needed to hear to be safe from that of which she could not name, of apologies for spurning her for speaking her truths, as though she were as ugly as the truths she had to speak, as though she were the harsh things she felt she had to say. X had tried to drive to see her when she discovered she had been hunted on the commands of her Omas son, a Nazi. The entire building was closed, as seemed to happen to her anytime she tried to travel anywhere important, and after waiting as long as she could, she was resigned to leave a note that would likely never be received. She tried to call but her Oma could never seem to hear her over the phone, probably a technical issue, but in any case it only seemed to make them both sad.
Her grandmother and her mother also had a proclivity for working with plants, weaving baskets and floral arrangements and the like. Her aunty recognized the family in her work.
X remembered being a child- making mudpies and dandelion potions, eating mushrooms, praying for love, putting flowers in her hair and bathing in whatever nature invited her to.
She walked with all she had learned of wild crafting in the natural spirits – asking permission only taking from the crowded areas of competition, tending most to those about to rejoin the soil.
Through her communion with nature she could be with all of these forces of love, they were with her, bringing respite from being otherwise constantly consumed by their hateful counterparts. The child, the crones, the great mother to hold her were her own mother never would.
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