The Story of Blossom

This is the story of Blossom.

Blossom could never figure out where her name came from.  Why had her parents given her a name that suggested that life was full of promise, if the sole intent of the world she grew up in was to tell her what she couldn’t do?

Everything that Blossom felt, thought, did, was a reflection of other people’s thoughts, ideas and wishes.  The terms of reference for how she was feeling today lay outside of her head and in her parent’s hands.

“How is Blossom enjoying school?”

“Oh, she loves it,” her mother responded.  “She’s an absolute star at history.”

‘I hate it,’ thought Blossom.  But she never said it.

She had, when younger, tried to say how she felt.  She said she didn’t like playing with Emma.  Emma had a habit of deciding what they would play, when and where.  Emma liked to be in charge of everything.  When Blossom had ventured at the age of 5 that she hated Emma, she was told “no, darling, don’t be silly.  Em’s your best friend.”

Actually, Emma’s mother was the best friend of Blossom’s mother.  So, after several fruitless attempts to break away from Emma and make her own friends at school, Blossom gave up.  Other children didn’t want to play with Emma.  She bullied, controlled and threw tantrums.  So they didn’t want to know Blossom, either.

By the time Blossom reached secondary school, Emma told her what she liked to wear, what music they would listen to and what boys were interesting enough to consider as fanciable.  The odd rebellion by Blossom had been quelled by her mother who told her that Emma was the best friend she could ever hope to have.

So, it was no surprise that on her wedding day, Emma was chief bridesmaid.  In fact, Emma was the only bridesmaid.  Blossom was marring James, cousin of Emma’s fiancé.

She stood before the long glass mirror and looked at herself in the ruffles and lace that adorned her long slim figure.  She looked and looked.  This wasn’t the wedding dress she’d originally chosen.  Emma said it was too plain.  Her mother said it was too expensive.   Apparently Emma’s mother had said something about getting above herself.  Still, the feminine bustle gave her curves to make up for the elfish figure.  Her hair was pulled back and up and the tiara crowned her head, framed by the veil flowing behind – and out and up.

Blossom looked at herself again.  She felt more like the sugar plum fairy than flower about to come into full bloom.  She looked at her face.  Her eyes.  Those beautiful, crystal blue eyes.  They were somewhat misty as tears started to rise in them.  Her mother said it was ok to be emotional.  Well, today anyway.  And get a tissue to make sure they don’t streak your make up.

In the car, on the way to the church, her dad said she looked lovely.  As she looked at him she burst out laughing.  No I don’t.  He smiled.  It’s time to live up to your name he said.  He handed her a carrier bag.  Inside was a pair of jeans and top. 

Somewhere between the bus stop on Carrs Road and the Church, Blossom’s dad had stuffed a blow-up doll into the sugar plum dress.  He walked it down the aisle.  He made a speech about how it really made no difference, since none of them were really interested in the person inside the dress.

It should be remembered that the best blossom’s come from strong stalks.  It just takes some shrubs a bit longer to grow than others.