If I were to have a daughter, I would teach her how to plant flowers. I would teach her to have faith in the earth from when it is frozen in the fringes of March and quilted with the first leaves of autumn. I would teach her to fall in love with the way the wind crescendos and bends the tip of her plant stems only slightly, making the petals flutter. During her first heartbreak, she’ll weep over her garden; the earth will absorb her tears, and pink carnations will sprout and comfort her, showing that they need the most raging storms to blossom. She’ll find safety in the sun’s golden rays as they bloom from clouds and blanket her flowers in light. Then, when she meets the one she loves as much as the earth, I’ll make sure she walks down the aisle with a bouquet of white roses that we grew in the backyard together, her hair braided with their petals. She’ll smile and thank me for a childhood of flower crowns, dirt-stained hands, and vibrant gardens, and maybe if she has a daughter of her own, she’ll do the same thing.