My eighteenth birthday came and went like the winter. Eventless. Lonesome. Without celebration or acknowledgement or self discovery. I don’t know how long it’s been since. I do know that the leaves have fallen and snow season has passed and judging by the heat we are approaching summer. I stop and turn back to the scene behind me. Project members hard at work planting the white flowers according to my orders, the sun beating down on their backs. I shield my eyes with my hand. They’re tearing up what’s left of my mother’s garden. Few of the plants survived the cold, harsh winter. Everything is getting chopped and uprooted regardless. I look at the three species of white flowers, so similar, like siblings, now being planted in the places of the plants she knew and loved. I know them by their proper names. Jimsonweed, angel’s trumpet, and thornapple. Joseph and I collectively call them Bliss. Named after the effect that they have on people.