I saw a blossoming Magnolia tree just the other day when I was on the bus. I had this urge to write about it, but only got this far...
My parents had a magnolia tree, the kind that stretched up and above the other trees. When I held the petals in the palm of my hand, they’d reach from the tip of my middle finger down to the base of my palm, the sides ballooning out like a moon that couldn’t reach it’s full symmetry. In the spring the tree would shed it’s blossoms and they’d litter the red, cracked bricks. Sometimes when I’d come home at 2:30 in the morning, the rolling bricks would heave under my feet, and I couldn’t quite tell if it was a red sea I was navigating, or just my parents front drive way. The petals became slippery underfoot. The night dew mixed with the plump petals were like a death-trap to anyone who had impaired judgement, and even those who didn’t were often caught off guard with a sudden need to regain balance after having trod on one of the fallen beauties. They were dangerous, but my god they were beautiful.
