I can’t stop taking pictures of wildflowers. Some of my happiest memories from childhood are walking along the country road, with my grandma or grandpa, either to catch the bus to the closest town 20 miles away or visiting the library built inside an old bus once in every two weeks. The wildflowers would be wet after a brief summer rain and in my mind no rose garden would be no beautiful than those humble flowers. Hiirenvirna, siankärsämö, ruiskaunokki, sinikello.
After moving to Denver I still enjoy wildflowers probably more than planted gardens. I don’t have names for them. Even being fluent enough in English to hold a job and to be able to speak English without having to translate the sentences in my head, something is lost. I don’t know the trees. The birds. I might have an English name for some of them, but not a Finnish or Swedish one. There is not a button for å, ä or ö in my work laptop keyboard. Something will always be lost in the translation. The flowers. That doesn’t stop me enjoying them. And taking their pictures. The unknown flowers.