Flowers for Virginia

I can’t remember a time when my Aunt Virginia and I weren’t best friends. Most people thought she was weird. It was true, she wasn’t your average adult. Stricken with a relentless virus as a baby, Ginny almost died before her first birthday. She survived the soaring fever that wracked her tiny body but the illness forever left its mark. My aunt was forced to live with the mind of a child caged inside an adult’s body. A body condemned to having epileptic seizures throughout her life.

While Ginny wasn’t the average adult, neither was she the average child. She had a kind heart, a sweet, innocent spirit, and was the easiest person in the world to please. Ginny never got angry when normal kids called her spaz or retard. It was obvious, though, she comprehended the hateful words and the cruel taunts saddened her. Her head would drop, her shoulders slump and she'd walk away dejectedly. But she never cried or complained. I, on the other hand, never failed to become infuriated.

We lived in a rural area where all the kids at school knew each other. That meant they were all aware of my aunt’s condition, which led to a series of long stays in the principal’s office. I would jump to her defense and punch the lights out of a mean-spirited bully. No standing idle for me when someone spouted off ugly things about my favorite person.

It wasn’t a one-way street. I watched out for her and she looked out for me. She was my Ginny; I was her June bug.

Since I lived with my grandparents, we were usually doing something together. If it wasn’t a school day, we hunted four-leaf clovers or stained our skin picking and eating blackberries. Sometimes we pulled weeds from her flower bed. She loved flowers—especially the sunny yellow and orange marigolds. When the weather was bad, we stayed inside and looked for shapes in the pattern of Grandma’s linoleum floor. We identified many shapes in those gray, peach, and ivory swirls. Well, she did and I pretended to see them.

Sometimes Ginny combined those passions. Ofttimes, I’d walk into the living room to find her in her rocking chair, twirling her long, brown hair with one finger. With a finger from her other hand, she’d point to the floor and trace patterns in the linoleum. All the while, she’d rock back and forth methodically—five times to and five times fro, pausing for a count of three before repeating the sequence. It was a staccato rhythm from which she never deviated.

I was four the first time I thought to ask what she was doing when she was in her rocking chair. Ginny completed a sequence, looked up, and gave me an obliging smile. “I’m looking for the flowers. Can you see them?”

Puzzled, I stood by her and examined the faded design. I couldn’t, but I didn’t want to disappoint my friend. The time would come when I’d learn to find them but “Pretty,” was all I could come up with then. When I tired of staring at the floor, I asked hopefully, “can we look at the flowers outside now?”

“Oh, yes! Let’s!” Her patient smile became radiant. Ginny stood, her head cocked to one side, and adjusted the position of her chair. The rockers had to rest in the tracks they’d worn from years of stationary travel. It was a habit no one could break; Ginny’s chair had to face due south toward the road so she could watch our driveway. She wanted to announce the infrequent visitor when they pulled in. Once satisfied her chair was in the right place, we made a beeline for the backyard.

We first ate a few blackberries straight from the vine, laughing as the juices colored our lips purple. Next, we inspected the clover for an elusive good luck charm (I didn’t find one but Ginny did and gave it to me). Our third stop was her flower garden. After littering the ground with unwanted weeds, she plucked a handful of marigolds. I handed her the daisies I’d begged to unearth. Marigolds were her favorite; I loved daisies. They went together well, just like Ginny and me.

Ginny held the flowers in a bunch, sniffed the delicate scent, and held them to my face. I understood she wanted to share the joy of the fragrance. We laughed again when the blooms brushed my nose and I sneezed at the tickle. Pretending to wipe the spray off the flowers, she told me not to sneeze into them again; I might cause them to catch a cold. I wasn’t sure, at that age, whether plants could really catch a cold or if she was teasing me. Sometimes Ginny did have a unique train of thought.

Eventually, afternoon slid into evening and we grew hungry for more than blackberries. We went back inside to eat dinner and put Ginny’s bouquet in a vase (aka a glass jelly jar) on her chairside table. It was a good day.

We spent the majority of our days that way, clear up to when I was nine and she was three days from turning thirty-three.

On Thanksgiving Day, I lost my childhood companion. Ginny had always been an early riser, usually awake before the rooster crowed. That day, she still hadn’t emerged from her room when Grandma was almost ready to put the holiday brunch on the table. We had two meals on Thanksgiving. A huge mid-morning feast consisted of scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. That held us over until the traditional turkey dinner that evening. She asked me to go wake Ginny and tell her it was time to eat. I went to my aunt’s room and knocked. When there was no answer, I opened the door to yell at her to get up. I knew Ginny loved pancakes and wouldn’t want to miss out on getting her share. Instead of yelling at her to wake up, I saw Ginny’s lifeless eyes and screamed.

They said she’d had a seizure in the middle of the night and suffocated. I couldn’t believe my aunt, my best friend in the world, was gone. At nine years old, I couldn’t understand why such a good and gentle person had to die. Not only did she die too young, but she also died alone. I was inconsolable.

We buried my Aunt Virginia three days later on what would’ve been her thirty-third birthday. Before the funeral, I’d gone outside to stand by where her flowers would bloom again the following Spring. I hoped it would feel like she was still there. Despite the film of tears, despite the time of year, I saw a single marigold standing tall and proud and glorious midst its dry, brown sisters. It was as though it beckoned me. I thought it was a sign; the spirit of my Ginny was still there, still looking out for me.

A realist, Grandpa told me it had bloomed because it was an unseasonably warm November. Grandma must’ve needed the sign, too, for she disagreed with Grandpa. Her eyes were as shiny as mine when she told me Ginny was still with us. She hugged me and promised Ginny would always be with us, and I should never lose faith in miracles. I chose to believe—in Grandma and in miracles.

I was a little selfish that day. I put the marigold in the casket with Ginny, but not until I’d removed a few of the fragile petals. I put them in my pocket until I could tuck them away with the pressed four-leaf clover she’d given me five years before.

In the years that followed, I tended her beloved flower garden daily. Weeds didn’t stand a chance. I regularly replaced the bouquet on her chairside table. I also made sure her rocker was always in the right place.

That went on until I left for college at the age of eighteen. The university I attended was far from home and finances were tight so I didn’t make it back for a couple of years. Staying in touch through letters and phone calls helped but I still missed my family. When my grandparents’ health began to fail, I put my education on hold to take care of them. After all, they’d taken me in when I needed the care; I would do no less for them.

It was a bittersweet day, the day I went home. I was anxious to see Grandma and Grandpa, but the first thing I saw coming up to the back door, was my Ginny's flower garden. Or what had been her flower garden. Once beautiful, it had become overgrown with weeds and dead plants. Grandma had grown too frail to tend it. I weeded and watered, hoping it wasn’t too late to at least save the marigolds. Afterward, I went into the house and, for the first time ever, sat in Ginny’s chair. I rocked in the same methodical rhythm as she once had, back and forth five times each before pausing. I envisioned her twirling her hair and air-tracing the patterns on the floor.

I could almost hear her. Oh, look, June bug! Aren’t those the prettiest flowers? I stared at the floor. Yes, I could see them! The flowers in the gray and peach and ivory swirls of the linoleum. Yes, Ginny, I thought. They were indeed the prettiest flowers.