Chamomile

Above her bed there were flowers, they were dead, obviously. But that didn’t matter so much. There were leaves too, stuck to a canvas and clipped to a wall. There were maps and snapshots of moments, instruments and pinecones, paintings and letters, phrases and poems. But the plants all belonged to the girl. Perhaps the only thing she felt she truly owned. Aside from the infinity of her own soul—was she its owner?

Whenever I’m sick and I’m with my grandma, she makes me chamomile tea and sends me to sleep with a story wrapped in cozy blankets. I wake up in the morning and feel immensely better. Sometimes it makes me wonder if grandmas only exist to be this type of comfort healing for kiddos. Probably.

My grandparents just sold their place in Tortola, BVI. One of the most extravagantly gorgeous and untouched places on earth. It was wrecked by hurricane Irma and the repairs were more than the actual property. Sad. That place held all the newness and excitement of life for me as a child. It was cozy and bright, welcoming and comforting. The kind of place where the tiled floor stays on the bottoms of your feet, the humid, musty air following your footsteps. And you’d never wish for it to leave you. When we were still sporting our elementary years, my cousins, siblings and I, decided to create a fairy house, we left notes to the fairies to give us a sign that they had come to visit. When we returned from the beach we discovered a miracle had happened while we were away. The fairy house held a crayon, small enough to be a doll’s, gently perched on one of the leaves. There was simply no other explanation than the visitation of fairies, and let me tell you all, we were ecstatic they chose us. I think back to that memory and get chills for how deeply and wildly kids can believe in something. And how often doubt takes adults for a road trip. To believe without hesitation is an extraordinary wonder.