I didn’t think I was an unusual child. I had no perspective to realized that not everyone spent large portions of their lives talking to things other people couldn’t understand. Like the worm-family that lived outside my back door, or the floating specks of dust in the air made visible by a ray of sunshine, or – the one I was reminded of on my morning walk – the angels of summer.

I would lie on my stomach. feet kicked up in the air, watching the stocky clover blooms march around the yard while above them, the angels wearing floral halos swayed gently in the breeze.  My brother would tell me to hunt for four-leaf clovers and, like a dutiful little sister, I did.  But I tired of it quickly.  Searching the ground seemed to miss the point. I didn’t need the luck my brother promised with the finding of a misformed clover. I had angels to talk to.

As the weeks passed, their halos shriveled and their pale green faces grew brown and dry in the in sun. I would slide my fingers up their graceful stems, releasing the tiny brown seeds into the wind. Sending them home.

I had forgotten about those angels until this morning as I kicked through a field near my house and there they were, waiting for someone to notice them. And I did, stopping to take a picture and remembering. My dad probably wondered why we had so many weeds in the yard when I was a kid or maybe he knew – they weren’t weeds to me.