It started out small; just some roses here, hydrangeas there. The flowers peppered the garden like freckles. The freshly packed snow glistened in the sun. “How are those plants still alive?” My brother asked. “I have no idea,” I complained. “Those flowers have been there since May. They’re pretty, sure, but they won’t stop growing, no matter how much I prune them,” I lamented. “I don’t understand how you can complain about that!” My brother laughed. “You must have one heck of a green thumb.” That’s what the neighbors always said. It wasn’t me though. I planted those flowers in the late spring for my end of semester project. Now they won’t die. The fence was barely visible, entangled with wisteria, and the ground was now covered in daisies and dandelions. I didn’t plant those. My father attempted to rid the yard of the plants in all manner of ways. He sprayed the yard with tons of weed killer. He mowed the lawn dozens of times in the early morning. He spent an entire weekend uprooting every last one of them by hand. They kept growing. By June of next year, the house was overrun. Exotic plants crawled up the red brick walls and snaked up the roof. The driveway was stained with vines and leaves. By now we had made peace with the ever growing flora. The neighborhood kids knew us as the flower house. At least they’re pretty. The flowers finally cracked through the bricks. They infested our house like ants, uprooting our houses foundation. “Clarissa! You need to get these gosh darn plants out of my house!” “I didn’t grow them!” I rebuttaled. The plants seeped through the cracks of the house like a parasite. They wrapped themselves around windows and above photo frames. They wormed their way throughout the house until they forced us out. I came back to the house one day, years after we’d moved. The green plants blossomed with colors of every sort. The dilapidated building stood out against the bright red bricks and stark white roooftops of the rest of the street. The house was still overrun with flowers. It belonged to nature now. “Wonderful work of art, huh?” While I was reminiscing, a stranger had made his way to my place by our old mailbox. “Oh, yeah. It’s beautiful.” “I’ve heard so many stories about how this place came to be. My favorite though, is that a girl wanted to be the best florist in the world. So she began to experiment and grow flowers in her yard. But it blossomed out of control. See what I did there?” He gave me a corny smile and turned to face me. “I don’t know if it’s true, but if it is, she must’ve been one heck of a green thumb.” “Yeah,” I replied. “One heck of a green thumb indeed.”