By Phil Dyer
I haven’t grown a single flower from my dreams.
My family were early bloomers. My mother is famous for hers, brushes improbable orchids from her pillow every morning. She sells them.
Not me. Not yet. Seventeen is late, but not too late. I keep hearing about Papa’s friend, twenty when he saw his first petals. But I am a little worried.
Every morning, I quietly dust away the thin silver trail that threads over my pillow, under the bed, out of the light.
I know what’s under there. Mushrooms and toadstools, glimmering bracket fungus. I don’t know what that means.