The Power Flower

My dad’s mother passed away when I was fifteen. October of 1991; I remember like it was yesterday. I was a freshman in high school and the typical self-absorbed teenager. I knew way more than my parents. Of course, in retrospect my parents were, and are, quite wise people. So being the hormonal monster that encompassed my essence so well, I wasn’t getting along with them. At all. We constantly argued over issues like the fact that I wasn’t yet allowed to date, my curfew, and my need for expensive clothes (because I was foolish enough to believe that my value derived from having a brand stamped on my ass). My life seemed wretched.

I found my solace and escape in the literary world. A particular story I was reading in my English Literature class at the time, called The Scarlet Ibis, by James Hurst, captivated my attention. The story touched me in such a way that to this day, it remains one of my favorites.

That fateful Sunday evening, I remember working on an interpretation paper for The Scarlet Ibis. It was nearly 11pm, and Mom had just peeked in my room to ask how much longer I was going to be awake. I typed away while awaiting my jeans to dry; the simultaneous excuse to prolong my bedtime and embrace my vanity. At 11:13pm the telephone rang. I knew immediately that something was wrong. There was an overwhelming sense of doom in the atmosphere. I opened the door to my bedroom just as my dad burst past and ran down the hall headed for the door. I rushed down the hall to Mom, sitting on the side of her bed on the phone with someone.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

She turned around and the look on her face told me to leave the room. I did.

Meanwhile my little sister, Jennifer, had heard the commotion and emerged from her bedroom, right across the hall from my parents’. She was eleven years old and I was fiercely protective of her. No one was allowed to be mean to her but me, and no one in the world loved her more than I did. My sister had always been very sensitive to others. She could walk into a room and immediately know who’s lonely or scared or who just needed a hug. An endearing quality she bears to this day.

Knowing how my sister wouldn’t understand what was going on (as I clearly didn’t either) I grabbed her hand and led her down the hall to my bedroom. I told her we were going to read a story, and she happily crawled into the covers of my bed and stared at me with her big brown eyes, in awe of being accepted into her big sister’s all-too-important teenage world. I snuggled up to her, enjoying the warm “kid” smell of her hair.

“What are we gonna read?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “How ‘bout I read you the story I’m writing a paper about?”

I crawled into bed beside her and began to read her The Scarlet Ibis. After a while I realized that it was well after midnight, and Mom still hadn’t come in to yell at us to go to bed. Deep down I knew someone had died, I just didn’t know whom. I was scared, but I was trying to put up a strong facade. Finally, Mom came into my bedroom and told us to go to sleep. I tried to ask her what was wrong, but she just hugged us goodnight and told us that she and Daddy would talk to us in the morning. I could tell she'd been crying.

“Do I have to go back to my room, or can I sleep in here?” Jennifer asked.

I looked at her and she had this lost little puppy look. I told her, “You can sleep in my room tonight.”

The following morning, I awoke to find my sister already up and out of bed. I looked around my room and realized that it was much brighter than it normally was in the morning when I got dressed for school. I looked at my clock. It was after 9am. I sat up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stretched the kinks from my muscles. I made the trek down the hall to the living room like a robot, knowing there was no way I could avoid the inevitable. I was trying to brace myself for what I knew was coming; I’d dreamt about it. My dad was sitting on the loveseat, and Mom was coming from the kitchen with a cup of coffee.

I sat down on the couch next to Jennifer and we both just stared at my dad for what seemed like hours. He looked up at us with red-rimmed eyes, his voice unsteady, and said “Girls, I have some bad news. Granny didn’t make it.”

Then, for the first time that I can remember in my life, my dad erupted into tears. I don’t know what it is about daddies, but I think every girl thinks her father is an invincible hero, and heroes don’t cry. I really can’t remember what stunned me more – the shock of seeing my dad sobbing, or that he’d just told me Granny died.

Mom began to cry, and my sister joined in, but somehow for me the tears wouldn’t come. What was wrong with me??? My Dad’s mother – my grandmother – was gone and I couldn’t even shed a tear! I went over and hugged my dad because it seemed like the right thing to do. He held on to me and sobbed into my t-shirt, which made me feel strange. I managed to pull away and be replaced by my sister and made my way back down the hall to the bathroom to wash my face.

“Mom!” I called down the hall. “Mom, could you come here?”

She appeared at the doorway with a tissue in hand and held out her arms to me. “No, I’m okay,” I told her. “Are you going to take me to school?”

She stared at me; dumbfounded, and said, “I think it would make Daddy feel better if you stayed at home today.”

I sighed. “Okay.” But I didn’t feel okay. I felt terrible. Terrible for my dad. Terrible because I hadn’t cried. Terrible because I wasn’t going to school. Terrible because I wasn’t getting to show off my new pair of brand-name jeans that I’d managed to con my mom into buying me. What a selfish jerk I was.

I brushed my teeth, showered, and made my way back towards the family. By then, the television was blaring and my sister was watching the cartoon network. Daddy and Mom were making a list of people to call, and my Nana (Mom’s mom) had arrived to see what she could do to help. I was happy to see Nana. She’d come bearing gifts – homemade cinnamon rolls (her specialty). She hugged my parents and made her way into the living room and hugged my sister and me. I sat down at the table and listened to my parents make difficult phone calls and prepare for funeral arrangements.

I still hadn’t cried.

I drifted methodically in and out of the next few days like a dream. The night prior to the service at the family visitation and viewing I greeted people, allowed them to hug me, and said what I assumed to be all the appropriate things. The funeral was typical as far as I knew. At the age of fifteen I hadn’t been to many funerals, but it seemed normal, only, I was sitting in the family area instead of with the congregation. I remember my dad crying again, but this time it was softer, resolved. I guess at that point he had cried just about all he could. The hard part seemed almost over. At the gravesite, we listened to words of comfort. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We prayed. We held hands. Our entire family placed roses on the casket before it was forever lowered to its final home beneath the earth.

No tears.

I returned to school with the fear that people would pay attention to me based on my family’s recent loss, and I wasn’t prepared to answer a bunch of questions. But honestly, at that age, I had forgotten that most other teenagers were selfish and inconsiderate like me. They didn’t give a damn about another person’s benefits or woes unless it involved getting a seat during lunch at the ‘cool table’.

Homecoming came and went, though I was too young to have a date, I primped and strutted in my cutest outfits hoping to attract the football players all the same. Halloween flew by, and November crept up with the promise of colder weather. It wasn’t until the day after Thanksgiving that things finally sank in.

That Friday, I remember the weather being freakishly cold. Black Friday. Traditionally, it was supposed to be the biggest shopping day of the year. Nana and my Aunt Carrie came over to meet up with Mom and Jennifer to go fight the mall crowds. Mom asked me for the hundredth time if I was sure I didn’t want to go, but I insisted that I wanted to stay at home and relax. My dad was tinkering in his shop, and everyone else left to go begin the Christmas frenzy. Alone at last, I got my bubble bath, a good book and ran a tub full of hot aroma and relaxation. I closed my eyes, laid back and relished in the comforting noises outside the bathroom window. I listened to the dead leaves crackling as the squirrels scrounged for goodies. I heard the chirps of tiny birds, echoing in the still of the trees and the chill of the air. Somewhere distant, the haunting sounds of a lonely barn owl floated through the barren branches. All of the noises blended melodiously together to serenade my mood.

I soaked in the bath for so long that I had to reheat my water three times. Finally, I’d decided that my legs were prepped enough to shave. I propped my right foot up on the faucet, lathered and began the routine. All of the sudden, The Scarlet Ibis came to mind. A voice somewhere inside my head began repeating ‘Granny is gone.’ The dam broke and the tears began to flood. I sobbed and heaved uncontrollably. I cried for Granny. I cried for my dad. I cried for my family. I cried in shame because I hadn’t cried before. It was a good cry. The kind that leaves your chest hitching for breath and your eyes puffy for days afterwards. A cry that cleanses your soul and leaves your insides hollow. I gathered myself and said a silent prayer that included a good-bye to my granny. It was the closure I needed. I finished shaving my legs and got on with my life.

Some years later when I was twenty years old, I had a serious boyfriend. And a serious attitude. I didn’t think a person could graduate from being an annoying teenager to an even bigger smart-ass, but somehow, I’d perfected the task. I was in college, living in an apartment and paying most of my own bills, so I guess I thought I had all of life’s present and future problems solved.

I was keeping a couple of my horses at my boyfriend’s farm, so I was taking the opportunity to ride just about every chance I had free time. Even though my parents had a barn with stables and plenty of land to keep my horses occupied, I preferred the convenience of my boyfriend to the obligatory parental encounter. I’d convinced myself that it would mean less interaction (and life lectures) from Mom and Dad. I know it broke their hearts a little, but at that time, I was too self-centered to care. My boyfriend and my social life mattered more. Looking back at my relationship, I can see where guidance from my parents would have been warranted, but unsolicited advice at that point in my life was a burden.

One particular Saturday evening, my boyfriend had invited my dad out to the arena to watch the team roping competition. I was furious. Not furious that my dad was coming out to watch the events, but rather that my boyfriend and I were supposed to go out to dinner to celebrate our 4th dating anniversary. Daddy showed up, not that I think he was particularly interested in horses and team roping, but because I think he thought of it as an opportunity to be included in my schedule. He backed his truck up to the arena and we sat on the tailgate watching the boys ride, choking on the dust, and me ranting and raving his ear off about my boyfriend not taking me out for a decent date night.

“Do you want to be out here?” Daddy asked.

“Not really.”

“Then let’s go on a date. Just me and you. How ‘bout you let your old man buy you dinner?”

I agreed, not necessarily to be with my dad, but as a proverbial f—k you to my boyfriend. Daddy and I left in his truck and headed into town to eat. Dinner conversation didn’t flow easily and seemed a little strained, full of loaded silences and uncomfortable laughter. I had always been a Daddy’s girl, and it pained me to know that things between us now felt so forced. But we trudged on, finding anything and everything to talk about. We conquered the usual ‘how’s school? how’s work? how’s life?’ topics. I dutifully carried on the discussion and as we got ready to leave, my father asked a question that blew me into outer space…

“You want a beer, Tootie?” (my nickname)

“Sure,” I answered (holy shit!)

I detested the taste of beer, still do to this day, but I was not about to say no. Now, I must explain the whole ‘beer’ thing. The members of my family are not big drinkers, but I remember my dad telling me a long time ago about my Pawpaw (his father, who passed away when I was three), and how one of his most treasured moments was when Pawpaw asked him if he wanted to share in the camaraderie of a beer - a sign of acceptance and equality amidst the parent/offspring awkward battle for respect.

My dad was going to drink a beer with me.

With me.

We stopped by the gas station to fill up his truck and he emerged from inside the store with two bottles of Bud Light. He handed one to me and we drove to my parents’ house to pick up my car I had parked there earlier. And something magical began to happen along the way. We were talking. Not clumsily stammering, but actually understanding and absorbing each other’s sentences. Maybe alcohol really is the social lubricant, or maybe it was just the fact that I thought it was cool as hell that my dad wanted to share a beer with me, but whatever the case it was working.

We arrived in the driveway and continued to sit in the truck and talk, and I choked down every last drop of that nasty beer, grinning from ear to ear the entire time. For three hours we talked about life, cars, work, weather, you name it, and every bit of it was endearing and unforgettable. We were truly connecting again. The ears and shoulders that had always been available for me were still there, despite my having taken them for granted for so long.

“Daddy, I have to tell you something.” He looked at me, genuinely interested in what I had to say. “I’m sorry about Granny. I’m sorry about how I reacted when she died. I know it hurt you really deeply. I just wanted you to know that I did say good-bye to her in my own way. I know you were close with her and it hurt me to see you lose the only parent you had left. I imagined what it would be like if I lost you or Mom, and I could hardly breathe just thinking about it. I wish I’d spent more time with Granny. I’m glad I’m getting to spend time with you. I just wanted you to know that.”

“I know, Tootie. It’s okay. I’m glad we’re talking again. I miss my girl,” he said as he winked at me and gently pinched my arm. “Did I ever tell you about the rose bush?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, after Granny died, your mom and I planted a rose bush on her grave. Your Granny loved to work in her garden, and more than anything she loved roses. She called it the power flower - beautiful and graceful, but full of tough thorns to protect it. We covered it through the winter, watered it, babied it, and no matter what we did we could not get that damn thing to bloom. Mom and I were going to go dig it up and replace it about a week before Mother’s Day, but it rained almost the entire week including the day we planned to go to the cemetery. We figured all the inches of rain would’ve uprooted it, so Mom bought some silk roses to put in its place. That Saturday evening, if you remember, you and Mom and Jen had gone to see a movie, and I took the opportunity to go alone and talk to Granny at her grave. I said a prayer and told her how much I missed her, and that I wished I could’ve spent more time with her. I told her that we had tried real hard to get the rose bush on her grave to bloom, but no matter what we did, we just didn’t have the magic touch.”

“So, what did you do?” I asked.

“Well, your Mom and I went to the cemetery that following Sunday, Mother’s Day, to place the new flowers on the grave. But when we got there, we didn’t have to.”

“Why not?"

“Because," he continued, "there were five of the biggest, reddest roses that had bloomed practically overnight on the bush. They bloomed just in time for Mother’s Day.”

“Oh, my gosh” I said softly and began to cry. I was truly touched. “That’s the most beautiful story I’ve ever heard.” And, for perhaps the third time in my life, my dad began to cry, too. We hugged each other and then I let out a loud burp from the beer that resonated against the windows of the enclosed cab of the truck. Daddy and I burst out laughing.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

Later that weekend I went with Daddy to the local Co-op and he bought me some starter rose bushes. All of the bushes withered and died (thanks to my former special ability to kill anything green). All of the bushes, that is, except for one.

The first time it bloomed was Father’s Day.