An example of writing from ideas in the last post: “I remember…”

November flowers, Key West, FL
Photo by Gail Molnar Pfeifer

Our yard in Middletown, New Jersey, was so shady that impatiens were pretty much the only summer flower I could grow. By autumn, when the impatiens finished blooming, they started to leave behind small pods. At times the pods looked so much like early buds it would be hard to tell the difference save for the season. As the weeks passed, though, the pods grew distinct; shiny green wormlike shells filled with the seeds of next year’s flowers.  

Autumn, Middletown, NJ
Photo by Gail Molnar Pfeifer

As a young child, my daughter noticed and picked these pods, although she never picked the flowers. Sometimes the pods were sturdy and endured the harvest, and sometimes they were so ripe that just your breath alonge would burst them. We called them “poppers,” because the shells would unfurl like a wet, used straw wrapper, spewing seeds all over and startling us both into laughter every time. This autumn ritual went on for years.

I don’t recall the exact moment when my daughter stopped noticing our poppers. And I don’t recall the exact moment she turned from sheltering and planting the seeds of her future self and flowered into the woman she has become. But every autumn, when I pass my neighbor’s impatiens, bolted in the summer sun of our new neighborhood, I look for poppers. I find them and hold them in my hand, and, smiling, wait to see what happens.