I pick the brightest and biggest one I can find. Carefully, because they’re delicate.
I hold it up and tip my head back, catching the drops on my outstretched tongue as they slip out of the shallow hole in the center of the flower.
Honeysuckle.
Sickly sweet.
My mom planted the bushes herself. Dug into the hard ground and planted two of them behind my brothers’ window out back to make it beautiful and to block the sun from shining right into the room, once they grew tall enough.
I water them sometimes and I wait.
Wait for the flourish of color that reveals the honeyed, hot freedom of summer.
Wait for the hummingbirds, who, like me, are attracted to red.
Wait for the trumpet tubes to fill with sweet nectar.
Wait for the shadows to hide what the sun shines light upon.