The family stood in the forest. The light filtered through the evergreens, little of it reaching the ground where the wood lilies thrived — their pale white blossoms sprinkled throughout the dark understory. Each bloom only lasted a day, making them a poor choice for a cut flower. And in 1978, trillium were endangered. But that was what interested Walter, who otherwise couldn’t care less about beauty.
A sturdy compound bucket in his left hand, Walter raised his right. “Ready, set …”
Peter and Alice waited, poised with their little red and blue plastic pails — sand clinging to the insides from when they’d taken them to the beach.
"Go!” shouted Walter.
Mary flinched, the braises on her face faded a mottled yellow and green.
The children dropped down to their hands and knees, scurrying from bloom to bloom — like the ants and beetles that pollinated them — voraciously culling.
Walter did not drop to his knees but instead bent over to pick, reaching, gathering by the fistful. He dropped the flowers into his caution-orange bucket, which was easy for Mary to see, even in the shadows. Quietly, she followed Walter down the hill, the baby in the sling, asleep on her chest.
The wildflowers erased from the slope behind them, the family spilled out of the woods alongside a small highway. A
