Flower or Weed

Cossette's fingers danced through the air, carefully selecting a vibrant spray of wildflowers from the verdant meadow that sprawled before them. Beside her, Whitlea was stooping to pluck a particularly robust daisy, her discerning eyes appraising its petals.

The annual Latorre tradition of crafting a flower wreath for the advent of spring was an activity that straddled the fine line between art and ritual. Every flower, every blade of grass, was a testament to the places she'd roamed across Latorre—a fragment of the world brought home.

Cossette turned and held her bounty of flora out for her friend's appraisal. "What do you think?"

"Lovely, as always." Whitlea reached out, and the flowers floated over to her open palm. Her fingers gently ran over each one, and their color grew more vibrant. She smiled, satisfied. "Now it is perfect."

"How is that different from what I did?" Cossette asked, frowning.

"You simply added to the colors. I gave them life."

Cossette stares at Whitlea with a with a smug grin and a slight twitch in her eye. "You know, when I first met you, I thought you were kind and demure."

"Yes, of course. That's how I define it."

Whitlea giggled, then turned her attention to the meadow.

"Oh! How about those?" She pointed to a patch of dandelions a few feet away. "Those will look good in the wreath, don't you think?"

"No." Cossette answered a little too quickly.

"But you have plenty of white flowers already. Wouldn't some yellow be nice? To contrast."

"Dandelions are weeds," Cossette said firmly.

"Weeds?"

"Yes, they're a pest."

"They're beautiful," Whitlea said.

"Beautifully a pest," Cossette muttered. "But if you insist,"

Whitlea grinned and rushed over to the dandelions. "It's only a flower, Cos," she called. "A weed is only a weed because we say it is."

Cossette stared, puzzled, before rolling her eyes and following Whitlea.

"What does that even mean?"

Whitlea plucked one of the dandelions, then turned to her and waved the flower in her face.

"You know what this is, right?"

"It's a dandelion," Cossette answered, crossing her arms.

"And you know what a dandelion is made of, right?"

Cossette rolled her eyes again. "Fine. It's a flower."

"A flower that's also a weed," Whitlea said, waving it in her face.

"Get your stupid weed away from my face."

Whitlea chuckles before going back to wreath-making.

"The point I'm trying to make," she continued, "is that we have the power to define something as a weed. It doesn't change what it is, but our definition can shape how we interact with it. So, if you don't want dandelions to be weeds, stop thinking of them that way. Stop pulling them out, and they'll grow on their own."

Cossette sat beside her. "I guess. But they're still weeds."

"So you say," Whitlea answered. "I say that we are weeds."

"Well, that's different," Cossette said.

"Is it?"

Cossette sighed. She'd been sighing a lot since meeting her friend. She watched the woman work, carefully arranging the flowers around the ring, smiling with satisfaction.