The sacredness of the morning was marked by the heady scent of wildflowers that lined the spit connecting the north side of the island to the mainland. For nearly a century the flowers could only be found on the spit. That ended when the mainlanders, allowed on the island as guests, took the flowers home as proof that they had indeed stepped foot on the island. Now the flowers could be found just about anywhere—demonized as a weed, it’s rarity long forgotten.

But on this morning, the flowers were heralded as young girls rose early to gather only the tallest and choicest of the seerliss to string together for adornment. Small and discriminating fingers plucked the stems from the red clay, careful not to disturb the roots–today was just the beginning and an abundance of seerliss would be needed to sustain the summer’s demanding schedule. Despite the day’s customary white garb, and the seerliss’ blood-red propensity to stain all it came in contact with, the women would don the flowers with an arrogance barely disguised as acceptable pride.

Continue Reading »