Prompt Entry #7: Our Fern

I have a short, thick photo album that I keep on my bookshelf. I think I took the photos and placed them in the album when I was six or seven. I have a picture of my uncle Danny holding up a blow dryer and pretending to dry his hair. I captured multiple photos of my mom making silly faces, my dad laughing, my cousins chasing each other around the foosball table, and my grandparents playing with my dolls. The album captures my family in a time of wholeness and laughter, but there is one thing in the album that makes multiple appearances and is not a human. It's a fern plant. Our Fern. That was the label on the pictures. I remember that plant. I remember the way the flat leaves spread out across our patio. The wispy fronds ticked my cheeks when I rested my head beneath it. The plant was thick, lively, and large.

My family is large. My parents' house was a popular meeting spot. We had plenty of indoor and outdoor space to accommodate everybody. My family members loved playing jokes on one another. My  mom and my uncle created a "toy murder" who made vicious attacks on my cousin's dolls as well as my own. We'd find our dolls hanging by their necks from our fans, spinning to cool off the warm air. Looking back, it seems morbid, but I only remember the horror and excitement of trying to discover who was killing our dolls. My family was certainly lively, and my parents' house was like the fern's pot. It was the central spot. From there, everyone spread out like the fronds.

That fern lives in my photographs, but it doesn't live at my mom's house anymore. She kept the house when my dad left. I don't recall when the fern was removed, but I remember its absence. I don't know what type of fern lived in my backyard, and I doubt my mom would remember. I still should ask her.

I forgot about that fern until my recent trips to Clark Reservation, where the ferns growing out of the sides of rocks captured my interest. They look like the fern that grew in the backyard. They look like small families in their habitats. They cluster together at their bases and branch out in feathery fronds.

Several of my family members no longer speak. Divorces have ended most of the marriages. Still, I remember that fern and its wholeness. I remember its vibrant green life and the way it shaded me from the sun. I loved that fern. It was part of my family. It was my family.

That fern, as a character, represents something my family had at one time. That fern is a reminder of nature's wholeness, life, and beauty. Clark Reservation is a great spot to learn about ferns, as there are 26 different types, including the rare American Hart's tongue. My family didn't spend as much time caring for nature once they split apart. Like the fern, the fig tree disappeared. I used to mash up the figs and make "soup." While I remember the fern, and I have it saved in some photos, I would love to go back to rediscover my mom as she  used to be. I could create a story about the plant life that thrived in my mom's yard when my family was whole and lively. The fern was a metaphor of an entire life, a community of family members. The fern lives, dies, but has the promise of new life. The fronds uncurl like newborns and join the family. I am drawn to the ferns I find now because of what they will forever represent. Maybe one day, I'll fill my yard with ferns.