Water a Flower
I’ve grown up with flowers. I don’t remember the very first time I held one, but I bet my little hands would’ve uncontrollably crushed it. I do recall holding one when I was little, but that was all thanks to pictures of three-year-old me as a flower girl at a wedding. Perhaps then, it has not been an actual flower I held but rather an assortment of red and white rose petals that I was tasked to sprinkle all over the aisle as the rest of the entourage walked on. I had no idea whose wedding that was, but then I’d realized how delicate the petals alone were and so cherished such daintiness.
“Look, Mother. I got you something.”
It does not take me long to notice that there are fake flowers alongside the real ones. I’ve always thought up to then that all flowers are the same, that nothing can replicate their beauteous and fragile nature. At an age though when one begins to understand the world a whole lot more and to differentiate by adjectives and observations, my realizations have saddened me. There can be nothing so truly unique anymore; all you need to do is copy one.
“Come my son, what is it?”
As my little boy moves my knitting needles and yarn aside to sit on my lap, he brings out a flower so white it couldn’t have been marred by anything. Its trumpet-like bloom is surprisingly unbent; I couldn’t think his clumsy hands would’ve cleverly hidden this beauty away. I look at my son, his eyes agleam with pride. I could only look on with horror.
“Love, what is this?”
“It’s a lily. I plucked it from your flower garden outside just for you.”
“You’re not supposed to pick from that part of the garden. You know fully well.”
“I know, but this one’s just so pretty I wanted you to see it.”
“You could’ve just called me to it. Well it doesn’t matter now. Just throw it away.”
Doing as he’s told, his face reflects dejection and rejection. As much as I sympathize with him, I’ve already warned him not to pick such flowers from my garden. They hold a particular significance, and he should’ve understood now by this time. I return to my knitting, only to stop at the sound of his footsteps approaching me.
“You don’t have to keep planting more lilies, you know. It’s not like you’re using them to replace the ones in his vase.”
“I’ve told you not to mention that.”
“But they’re no good just growing outside. Your over-planting has made them slowly take over your garden.”
“They grow as I please. They’re beautiful that way.”
“They’re not going to replace Father that way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He ran out on us, didn’t he?”
I stop and stare out the window, stunned that he’d known. I’ve never completely told him the reason behind the lilies. I’ve always made up some whole other story for the white flowers, but I’ve never once hinted at the truth. I’ve told stories of how he’s working away or busy with some family matters, but I’ve never clued my child in on what’s real.
“Mother, you have no ring on. I never found any hint of a ring either. I figured you and Father had me by accident, but then he left when he found out.”
I couldn’t say more. I let the tears streaming down my cheeks express what I feel as a reel of bad memories start to play in my mind, each one a painful reminder of a love once dreamed of but now lost, of an affair quite foolish but still too good to be true, of a commitment once unbreakable but now irreparable. I’d pushed all these to the back of my mind for they’ve been a dark chapter in my life, but now they’ve come back out under the limelight, reminding me once more of mistakes made that can be no more fixed.
He goes back to the trash can and retrieves the lily I’ve just asked him to throw away, analyzing it carefully. “The lily was his favorite flower, wasn’t it?”
I nod in silence, still a shaken and teary-eyed mess as I stand and move towards the window overlooking my flower garden. “He’s not really into flowers, but he has a thing for lilies.”
“Was he beautiful?”
I smile amidst tears. “Even more so than that beautiful lily in your hands. The ones in the vase over there were from him, the last time he ever came here.”
“Those ones are fake though, not like the real ones growing outside.”
“They’re fake because he believed our love would last forever like them.”
“Why plant some more outside then?”
“I happen to love lilies too.”
“Don’t you want to forget about him? I mean he didn’t want to be my father, so he definitely didn’t want to be your husband.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple, son. Besides, he is a parent now, so I bet he’ll come back. He’s got responsibilities.”
I watch my son shake his head angrily, crumpling the lily before throwing it away once more. “Why hold on forever to something so fake? You’re not going to feel better with all those lilies outside reminding you even more of him. He’s not coming back, Mother.”
Taking the vase of lilies with him, my distraught son runs up the stairs and throws the lilies out the staircase window. He’s never looked so relieved this whole day. “He’s not worth it, Mother. I think you should do the same too.”