An unnamed wildflower

If you walk south along the East River in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, you will come across a wild field overgrown with mugwort. Between the coarse green stalks, tiny wildflowers are scattered here and there, looking shy. When the wind blows, they sway gently together with the weeds; when it rains, they nestle close to one another as if shielding each other from the drops.

Through the overgrown brush, small yellow, purple, and white flowers peek their heads out, as if they had been waiting for me all along. Caught by their warm, familiar greeting hidden among the weeds, I stop in my tracks. I gaze at them for a long time, casting a tender look that says, “Have you been well?”

Leaving the charming wildflowers behind, I walk a little further and find a long row of old, abandoned factory buildings. My heart goes out to the weeds struggling to break through the cracked concrete around the factories. They poke through thick piles of dust settled between brick walls, and some even rise proudly toward the sky from atop the harsh rooftops. Seeing their incredible will to live—forcing their way out through any tiny crack they can find—I stop once more and whisper to them, “You are trying so hard!”

Passing the deserted factory district and entering the edge of the neighborhood, the scenery changes. In the small gardens of each house, flashy flowers display their large faces, as if bragging, “Look how pretty I am!” Their vivid colors and striking looks instantly catch the eye. But unlike the simple, shy wildflowers harmonizing naturally with the weeds, these flowers seem so full of themselves that I quickly tire of them and look away. It feels uncomfortably like staring at an artificially enhanced beauty whose features have been meticulously done up.

Oh, wildflowers! You wander like nameless nomads, untamed by human hands, which is why you are as free as the drifting wind. If I could be reborn in the next life, I would love to be a wildflower just like you, blooming in a vast field overlooking the river. I wouldn't mind being just a single, tiny petal—barely noticeable, swaying quietly in the breeze, and gracefully falling when the time comes.