Orange Roses

Patties sizzled on the grill as flames met the dripping fat. In the yard, children shuffled, laughed, shouted, and chains clanged against metal bars. Tiny arguments ensued over who would push and swing, finally ending with the patties hitting a plate and their mother shouting, “Time to eat!” They asked for another minute but were denied by their father who smiled and said, “But the sooner we eat, the faster there is cake!”

At the table, bright floral placemats surrounded a freshly delivered bouquet of orange roses. Glasses filled with lemonade squeezed minutes before held perfect ice cubes and dripped with condensation. Mom sat on one end. Dad sat on the other. Mom drank slowly and deliberately. Dad’s knife scraped the plate of their youngest son, who needed his burger cut in half. His eyes avoided the roses.

“Hey Dad, are you having a good birthday?” the eldest son asked.

“Of course!” he smiled without his eyes, “are you kidding me? I can’t wait to see what’s in that bag over there.”

The middle daughter giggled, “That’s the one I made! I can’t tell you what it is though. That’s why it’s in a bag. It’s a surprise!”

“You’re not supposed to tell him that!” the youngest son squealed.

“You can say it’s a surprise!”

“Take a bite of your burger,” Mom pointed to the youngest’s plate.

The room fell silent except for the chirps entering from the open windows and tiny mouths chewing happily. The neighbor watered his lawn and an occasional car whooshed past. The youngest avoided the salad, and the eldest attempted to convince him it was delicious, coaxing him with exaggerated sounds of delight. Mom and Dad avoided each other’s eyes but spoke about things they usually did. The weather, the new furniture they saw the neighbors carrying in, and the lawn that needed care at the end of the block. The pleasant and mundane conversation carried on through the evening until the last chair was pushed away from the table and the last plate was cleared from its colorful mat. Mom and Dad followed each other into the kitchen where they stood on either side of the room, arms folded, gazes averted. Shrieks of laughter wafted in from the backyard.

“Nice Roses,” Dad’s voice cut through the air between them.

“They are.”

“Haven’t seen Orange so vibrant before.”

“Me either. I wonder how they make them so bright.”

“Whose to say,” Dad poured himself a glass of water.

For a moment the silence between them was so loud it pushed the sound of the world out. Ice clinked in the glass as he swirled it thoughtfully. Mom straightened her shirt and wiped her hands on her jeans. Dad placed the cup gently on the counter, almost as if any carelessness would shatter it.

“I’ve always preferred white roses,” he smirked, crossing his arms again.

“Right, I think I knew that.”

“So why are they Orange?”

“Well. I-“

“You knew I always preferred the white ones. This morning we receive this bouquet and they’re orange, why are they orange?”

“I imagine they weren’t supposed to come today...”

“That doesn’t explain the color.”

Footsteps and laughter filled the room as the three children piled in one after the other. “Cake!” they chanted in unison. Dad lifted the youngest into the air and laughed disingenuously, “I think now is a perfect time for cake!” They cheered, giggling and dancing as Mom carried it carefully from the fridge to the countertop. They crowded around it, the youngest in Dad's arms, the middle hanging on to his leg, and the eldest leaning on Mom who held him close to her chest. They sang the birthday song perfectly off-key, clapping and shouting as he blew out the two white candles which read his age. The dull knife cut through the chocolate easily, revealing spongey yellow cake- the children's favorite.

With cheeks covered in chocolate and sticky hands, the middle daughter eagerly pushed the bag she had waited hours for him to open onto his lap. Dad smiled and kissed her on the forehead before pulling the tissue paper from it revealing a handmade card that misspelled “Happy Birthday Dad” in crayon. The inside of it was a jumble of shapes and smiley faces- the young artist’s rendition of their happy family. Dad grinned at her hard work and calmly listened to her tiny voice explaining which smiling face belonged to whom. He took the same care with the gift from the oldest son who made him a small house out of popsicle sticks.

The youngest held his bag up proudly. It was plain white- a stark contrast from either of his siblings which were painted with bright blues, greens, yellows, and reds. Dad smiled kindly at the boy as he carefully pulled the tissue paper from it revealing one withered orange rose. It had clearly been handled differently than the ones placed in the vase which stood defiantly on the dining table just within view. The petals were bruised, and the stem looked torn at the base where the boy ripped it to make it fit into its package. Moms’ breath hitched in her throat as he pulled it slowly from the bag.

Dad swallowed, “Thanks, buddy.”

“You’re welcome! I just thought that Mommy could share because it’s your birthday!”

“Ok,” Mom interrupted loudly, showing her teeth in something like a smile, “you guys should all go up and brush that cake off of your teeth.”

They stood up, wished Dad a happy birthday one more time, and followed one another to the bathroom. Dad stared at the floor, eyes glazed and tired. The wilted rose dangled from his loose grip. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know,” she was nearly whispering.

“No- you did,” his voice was a low and exhausted growl, “You knew when you saw the roses just like I knew when I signed for them and put them on our table.”

“But I didn’t know that he would-“

“You knew.”

Light dappled the room as the sun began to set through the trees. The birds were no longer chirping, but the kids continued to giggle and shout nearby. Mom bit her lip, her teeth creating a cage for words that could only do more harm than good. Dads’ eyes sharpened as he glared at the bottom of the paper bag. He reached into it and pulled out a small white card. Printed on it were black letters covered only slightly by crayon where the youngest boy had attempted to write his own name.

"Missed you on this trip.

X – T.H."