Amaranth

amaranth (‘am-uh-ranth) n.   an immortal flower that never changes in beauty or color

I sit at the kitchen table this evening, sketching the flower in the makeshift vase sitting in front of me. It is a single lilac stem covered in dozens of the little purple flowers, sitting in an old jelly jar. This is the first time I remember having any flowers in the house, and we don’t even have a proper vase for it, but lilacs are Mom’s favorite. When she and my father were younger, purple lilacs were the first flowers he ever gave to her. I’ve heard that giving somebody lilacs is like saying, “I’m falling in love with you.”  Dad doesn’t have the money to buy her a whole bouquet of lilacs anymore, and since we live in the city now, he can’t just happen across a lilac bush. Somehow though, he managed to get one stem of lilacs, and I’ve never seen my mother smile so much before.
The tiles of the kitchen floor are cold beneath my bare feet, but the summer air is hot and thick. The already-potent scent of the flower is intensified until it is nearly overpowering. For the millionth time I wish I could open the tiny kitchen window, but it was carelessly painted shut by whoever was in charge of decorating this sad excuse for an apartment. I sigh as I listen to my parents in the other room, giggling like newlyweds. They’re always so happy when they’re together, and it’s infectious. That coupled with the intoxicating perfume of the lilac lulls me into a peaceful stupor as I finish my sketch of the pretty flower.

This evening the subject of my drawing is an orange blossom in the old jelly jar. I smile happily at the little white flower with its protruding yellow stamen and long round petals. The lilac wilted last week, about four days after Dad brought it home, but this new flower is just as nice. It was my parents’ anniversary today. I remember Mom telling me that she had orange blossoms at her wedding. The wedding had been a small ceremony, and the orange blossoms were the only embellishments that the new couple could afford. It had never bothered Mom though, because she likes simple beauty. I also suspect it was because her mother had told her that orange blossoms symbolize eternal love in marriage. Tonight, he couldn’t take Mom out to dinner like he wanted to, so he made dinner for her instead. The orange blossom, small though it is, pleasantly masks the smell of burning pot roast that still lingers.
Again, I hear them in the other room. My mother is laughing joyfully as my father sings some Italian-style love ballad he must have heard on the radio today. I can just imagine them slow dancing together. I laugh to myself as I finish my drawing. This night reminds me of what their wedding must have been like: simple and somewhat plain, but to them, better than the most expensive ceremony in the world.

Tonight, a red carnation resides in the jelly jar. Dad is out of town on business, and Mom and I are home, just waiting for him to return. It’s kind of a shame that he had to leave only a few days after their anniversary, especially because this is the first time I remember my parents being apart for more than a day. It’s easy to understand why Mom was so sad at first. She brightened considerably when she got this flower, though. Now as I sit here drawing it, my mother is humming “That’s Amore” cheerfully under her breath as she makes dinner for us. The carnation’s scent is less intense than the lilac’s fragrance was, but it still fills the room with a pleasant smell. By happy coincidence, I’ve recently discovered that my neighbor is an avid gardener, and she was happy to lend me a book about flowers so I can take care of the ones Dad brings home. The books also lists the meanings of each flower, but I didn’t need its help to know what the carnation means. The red carnation is Dad’s way of saying “I miss you.”
Obviously, Dad couldn’t give the flower to Mom himself, so he sent it home with a coworker who had to come home early from the trip anyway. Because of the single flower’s fragility, the coworker, Henry, had to hold it and keep it safe for the whole ten-hour train ride. He wondered why the carnation was so important to my parents, but I’d think it was obvious. I mean, the doe-eyes Mom was making when she heard whom it was from were a dead giveaway. Henry must just be dense. The apartment isn’t the same without him here, but the flower reminds both of us he is missing his family just as we are missing him.

I hear the door slam, and lift my pencil as the wobbly table shudders from the door’s impact against the frame. I sigh and wish that my parents would stop fighting every other night. They never used to argue, but about two weeks ago, right after Dad got back from his trip, it just started happening. After a second, I continue to sketch out the purple hyacinth sitting in the improvised vase, but I stop soon after, as I have to fight the tears welling up. The flower book is sitting open on the table in front of me, but again, I was able to guess the meaning of this one before seeing it in print. Dad is saying, “I’m sorry.” The thing is, I don’t think that my mother is in a forgiving mood. That’s why Mom left so quickly and so angrily. The sounds of the latest argument replay in my head. I can never hear their exact words because they always fight in the other room, but I can always tell how bad the fight is by the volume. Tonight, it was very loud, and therefore very, very bad.
I know that Dad is now sitting in the other room, looking shaken and exhausted from trying to console my mother. He probably has his hand over his eyes, the way he does when he’s had a stressful day at work. This time, Mom raised her voice louder than ever. Dad, on the other hand, didn’t raise his voice at all. That’s how he always is when they fight, his soothing low tones clear under her shouting and sobbing. This isn’t the first time Mom’s run out in a tizzy, but she always comes back. As I draw, think about how carefully I’ve had to take care of each flower. When a flower receives the right nurturing, it flourishes. It only takes one mistake, though, like too little or too much water, and the flower will wilt. Dad doesn’t know what he did wrong or how to fix it, and for the first time ever, I’m afraid that Mom won’t come back. When she left tonight, she wasn’t crying.

Tonight, I am again holding back tears as I stare at the blue hydrangea bloom sitting in its makeshift vase, but this time they are tears of anger. The lacy edged, powder blue flower seems so out of place with my anger, or maybe it is my anger that seems out of place tonight. I suppose I should be happy because at the moment, things are quiet. Mom came back, as she always does, and is cleaning up from dinner, and Dad is helping her. Whenever they have to interact directly, my mother’s politeness seems forced, while Dad’s is as sincere as ever. The whole scenario is far from perfect, but at least they aren’t arguing anymore. The flower book is propped forlornly against the wall across the room, halfway open and pages crumpled, looking like a wounded animal. I think I may have broken the spine, but I’m not sure. I somewhat regret throwing it, but I couldn’t help my anger. The hydrangea was meant to be a peace offering to my mother, but I saw the flower meaning in the book when I was looking for how to take care of a hydrangeas. Apparently, this lovely, delicate flower symbolizes heartlessness.
My father didn’t know what the flower meant. He couldn’t have known. If he had, he never would have given it to her. I’ve never heard him call her anything unkind. He’s only ever called her Love, or Honey, or the most beautiful woman on earth. He would never call her heartless, and I shouldn’t be so upset because it was just an honest mistake. But every other flower he’s given her has fit so perfectly. Dad should have known. I don’t care how; I don’t care that he’s not a gardener or a botanist.  He should have known.

This time I can’t hold back the tears. They slide down my face and off the tip of my chin, down onto my paper, ruining my sketch of the sweet pea blossom that is sitting in the homemade vase. I can only see the soft blur of pink and green as the round petals lose their shape through the tears obscuring my vision. I seem to have been crying a lot in the past month, since the fighting started. The house is silent tonight, except for the sound of my quiet crying. I know that Mom is in the other room with the bottle of cheap wine she was saving for a special occasion. This doesn’t really qualify as a special occasion, but she’s drinking it anyway.  Mom has hardly ever touched alcohol, but tonight she drinks as if it’s the elixir of life. I suppose if it takes the edge off that one painful word that’s haunting her, that word that's haunting both of us, then I can’t blame her. 
They fought again last night. In the other room, Mom was shouting, and Dad was trying to calm her. She was crying as she yelled, and this time I heard something break, but I never went to see what it was. There was silence for a moment, and then my Dad spoke. At the time, I couldn’t make out the words, but now I know what he said, for he said it again clearly with the flower on the table. I take a deep, shuddering breath and look at the sweet pea blossom again, trying not to let my eyes roam too close to the flower book on the table. The spine is taped up, but it still looks a little forlorn. I shut my eyes as I close it and push it away. All I can think about is how Dad left for work this morning but hasn’t come back. I glare at the book angrily, as if blaming it for containing such a harsh word, one that neither my mother nor I can stop thinking about tonight. I don’t want to see that word, that word that is the meaning of a sweet pea blossom, that word goodbye, ever again.

I breathe in the light scent of the azalea in the vase as I sketch it on my drawing pad. The vibrant pink color or the star-shaped flower seems out of place in this gray apartment. It’s been about two weeks since Dad left, and he hasn’t been back. Well, he did come to the front door, but he never came in. Who else would have left a single azalea sitting on the stoop? When Mom saw it on the table, her eyes widened a little but she didn’t say anything. She’s been very quiet like that since the day Dad left, and I wonder how she’s feeling. I know better than to ask, though, because I’ll only get the same answer again, that she’s fine and I shouldn’t worry. I think it would be obvious to anyone that she’s not fine. For one thing, she’s hardly left the house for the past two weeks. She hasn’t cooked at all, either. She was so out of it the night after Dad left that I decided to make dinner myself, to take some stress off of her. She hasn’t been drinking anymore wine, but I can tell that she hasn’t been feeling well, so I’ve been making meals for both of us. As I draw, I think of the little note that was lying folded under the azalea: It said, Take care of yourself for me. It’s a strange coincidence, but when I was looking for azaleas in the flower book, I saw that same thing written, almost verbatim, as the meaning of the pretty flower. Dad’s never seen this book, I don’t think, so it’s a little bit odd, but no matter. If Mom isn’t going to follow Dad’s wishes, then I will.
Mom did sit down with me the day after Dad left to talk to me about it. She told me they’d been having some problems and things just weren’t as happy between them anymore. She also told me it was Dad’s idea to separate. She said that when they were fighting that night, he told her that he couldn’t stand to see her so upset because of him. He said that he never meant to make her angry or hurt her, and that he didn’t want to make her cry anymore. Then he told her goodbye and kissed her one last time. Mom had tears in her eyes as she told me about this. She told me that she never wanted this, never wanted to be without him, but he had said it was for the best. I haven’t seen her cry since then, but I think she still does at night. I haven’t cried since the night after he left; I have to stay strong for both of us. At the moment, Mom’s in no shape to take care of herself for anybody.

I’m sketching one last drawing in my book tonight, at the kitchen table with its homemade jelly-jar vase. Nothing in this apartment has changed in the past year. The window is still painted shut and the floor tiles remain cold no matter what season it is. It’s still just my mother and me, and we live a normal life. She works at a diner and goes out with her friends on weekends. Weeknights, we eat a meal that we cooked together, and we do our best to fill the apartment with happy sounds, like our laughter or Mom’s singing over a symphony of pots and pans and running water. There is always a lingering feeling like something’s missing, but we’ve both learned not to ignore it the feeling. Instead, we embrace it as part of our small family, leaving little silences in our conversations for the missing part of us to fill in. We don’t often mention anything about the times before the split. Instead, we have started anew with only our memories to remind us of that other life.
I sigh as these memories assault me, and I close my drawing pad. It has become so special to me, even though I haven’t used it for a year. I know I’m going to keep it forever, and never draw anything else in it, but for now, it’s going to go in a shoebox in my closet. I can’t hide the painful and pleasant memories, but I can try. I have one more thing to do before I attempt that, though. I open my drawing pad to the very first page, which I left blank for no particular reason when I got it. With a shuddering sigh, I put my pencil to the paper and write out the words: In Loving Memory… Maybe I was wrong to say that nothing has changed in the past year… Yes, something must have changed, because this time, Dad sent two flowers.
When I got home after school this afternoon, the flower book was lying open on the table with the afternoon newspaper next to it. As I set my things down, my eyes wandered to the two flowers sitting in the jelly jar, and I knew that Dad must have stopped by again. By unspoken agreement, no other flower had ever resided in that jar since he left. I assumed he left these by the door just as he had left the azalea a little over a year ago. They were both white, one with rounded petals that become yellow at the middle of the flower, the other with triangular shaped petals and a thick, yellow stamen. I leaned closer to inhale the sweet scents and then looked at the flower book, which had been left open to primrose. A primrose means, I can’t live without you. Only as I turned the page back to Madonna lily did I vaguely register the sound of my mother sobbing in the other room. I ran my finger down the page and stopped next to the meaning of the lily, and my blood ran cold. At that moment, I feared that I knew what was making my mother cry for the first time in almost a year: Madonna lilies symbolize death.
I glanced at the newspaper, my eyes frantically searched the page until they reached the small title at the bottom: “Man Dies In Tragic Bridge Suicide.”
I read the article until I got to a part that said all he left behind was a short note. It said, “I fell in love with her. I vowed to love her eternally the day we got married. I missed her with all my heart when we were apart, and I offered my every apology any time I hurt or upset her. She always took me back, even when I acted heartless. She never blamed me, even when I had to tell her goodbye, and that I couldn’t take care of her anymore, so she had to take care of herself for me. I knew I could never live without her.”
These words broke through my grief like a slap in the face as images of each flower ran through my head. The lilac, the sweet orange blossom, the carnation and the hyacinth, that offensive hydrangea, the sweet pea blossom and the azalea… the primrose. The Madonna lily. All in perfect memory, in perfect order. Dad had known all along.