Rosemary had a secret only she didn’t know what it was yet. She was as happy as most kids had been their Sophomore year at Roosevelt High School just outside of Chicago. She got grades good enough to keep her out of trouble at home and not good enough to get her too many awards at school. But she had one peculiar habit.
Rosemary loved her mother’s garden and was drawn to it in a way most sixteen-year-olds never are. Especially ones with driver’s licenses. Every day after choir practice at school she would drive home, grab her camera, put on her Crocs and walk the long, pebbled path to the raised beds of the vegetable garden just inside the deer fencing. The day she would discover her secret, the beds had just been tilled and fertilized and made ready for the spring planting of the usual–tomatoes, string beans, radishes, carrots, peppers and corn. She walked past them all, past the barely budding berry bushes to one bush in particular.
Every day, no matter the weather, Rosemary walked to the forsythia bush. Every day she took a picture from the same spot. She’d been doing this since she got her digital camera for her fourteenth birthday. She was born in the spring and there was something about the season, about everything coming alive, that spoke to her in ways she thought only spring babies really understood. On this particular day the bush’s little buds had slightly opened to reveal the tiniest peek at the yellow flowers to come. She walked to the well-worn spot where her wooden bench stood, sat down and took the shot. This was the second year she’d make a time-lapsed video out of her photos. There was something about watching the bush die and come back to life in a matter of minutes that hypnotized her. There was a beauty in it. A natural beauty. But, of course, nothing comes back from the dead.