Yellow Roses

My father was never good with his words. He was kind, of course, but quiet, sometimes a little gruff. Tall and dense, with a beard that could always hide what he was thinking. He never told my sisters or I that he loved us, that he was proud or that he cared.

My father was always good with his flowers. He was gentle with them, careful, each petal as delicate to him as silk. He spoke to them quietly, lovingly, spending hours in his greenhouse each day. He never told my sisters or I that he loved us, that he was proud or that he cared.

Instead, he gave us flowers.

Cinquefoil on each of our birthdays.

My beloved daughter.

Goldenrod before our tests, our performances, our first dates.

You can do it.

Red carnations for each of our good report cards.

I’m proud.

Yellow carnations when we lied, broke rules, disobeyed.

I’m disappointed.

They would appear in school bags or on car seats, on our pillows at night or on the kitchen table in the morning. When we were young, finding a flower was always followed by a mad dash to the living room, scrambling at the book filled with flowers and their meanings, flipping wildly until we found what it meant, like some kind of scavenger hunt.

As we grew older, the dashes happened less frequently, and by high school, we knew the meanings of every flower we’d ever received. Instead, the discovery of a flower was met either with gratitude and a rare smile from our father, or an apology and mumbled forgiveness.

When each of my sisters moved out one summer, first one, then the other, he made them bouquets. Peonies, iris, yellow roses. Good luck, I believe in you, I love you always. There were tears from all, rare hugs exchanged. The bouquets still sit dried in each of their apartments, next to the bed or on the mantel. They’ve moved with them, carried replicas in their weddings. Protected them from pets and children and dust. When my sister’s building caught fire last year, she reached for her bouquet first.

I was three years the youngest, and when my last sister left, the house became quiet. My father seemed even quieter. He began to let me sit with him in his greenhouse, watching quietly as he tended to his flowers. He didn’t bother teaching me what they were, I knew them all already. I’d hand him pruning shears, watering cans, little bits of twine. We never spoke, but he always talked to the flowers. It was the most I’d ever heard my father speak at once.

When I left the house, there was no bouquet. It was sudden, and loud, and the only time I’d heard my father yell. With my sisters away, I’d lost my guides, lost my closest friends. I became wild and angry, going out with other kids instead of sitting in the greenhouse, not coming home at night. Discarded yellow carnations grew in a pile on the table, by my bedside, in our trash.

When I left the house, there was no bouquet. There were slamming doors and hastily-packed bags and a yellow rose trodden underfoot. I love you, I forgive you, I’m sorry.

I didn’t speak to my father after that. He called me, he wrote emails and letters and texts. He sent flowers. I never responded. My sisters called on his behalf, pleading with me. I refused to reach back out, too slighted and hurt by what had been said the night I left. As I grew older, the slight went away, making room for resentment to move in and settle.

Boys I dated brought me flowers, bouquets. I always laughed to myself at the shoddy retail combinations, knowing they only picked them because they looked the prettiest, were the brightest, nevermind what they meant.

The day of my wedding, I did the same. I carried whichever unremarkable, beautiful bouquet went best with the dress, with the hall, with the centerpieces picked by my bridesmaids. I walked alone down the aisle and my sisters met me at the altar, smiling but sad. After the ceremony, my bridal bouquet was left somewhere, lost, set down on some chair by the person who caught it.

When my father got sick, my sisters called me, pushing me to visit. My husband needled at me in our kitchen, pushing me to visit. I figured I had more time. Maybe later in the summer, when my workload had lessened up a little. Maybe then I’d go back for a visit.

When my father’s doctor said any day now, my sisters called me. My husband packed me a bag and I left that night. I first broke down at baggage claim, when I saw a woman with embroidered flowers on her shirt. I took a taxi to the hospital, making him pull over when we passed a florist on the way, breaking down for a second time when they told me it was time for them to close, and a third when they took pity on me and opened the door.

My father’s room was quiet when I entered, only the beeping of the heart monitor breaking the silence. They’d given him a west-facing room at the end of the hall, so the sunset would come in. His shelves and tables were filled with flowers, just as he would have wanted. It wasn’t hard to pick out which my sisters had sent when he first came in. Plain get well, I love you, I miss you bouquets stood in stark contrast with beautiful, colorful ones that said congratulations, I’m sorry, good luck!

 He was asleep, breaths shallow. The tallest figure in my life now looked small, frail where he used to be strong. His beard was gone and he hardly looked how I remembered. I sat with him through the night, at first in silence, then slowly telling him about the flowers in his room. I didn’t know if he had seen them, if he knew. I think he would’ve laughed at some of the ramshackle ones, so I told him about them all.

Sometime after the room started to fill with light, my sisters appeared in the doorway. I saw them both notice the bunch of hyacinth sitting next to him in a plastic cup I had snatched from the nurses’ station on my way up, but didn’t comment. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We sat together, all of us now, talking, reliving stories and telling new ones. I’m sure some of my sisters’ stories weren’t new to him, but they told them to me anyway.

Sometime after we’d run out of stories, sitting in silence, holding his hands and each other's, the light of the sunset began to stream in, and the quiet room went silent.

I hadn’t been back to my childhood home since the night I had left. My sisters had already cleared out most of it, so I went alone. Everything was in the same place as when I left, but it was quiet and I could see that the greenhouse was empty. On the kitchen table was a shoebox, and I went to throw it away before I saw my name written in handwriting that was shaky but instantly recognizable. I lifted the top and flowers spilled out onto the floor.

Yellow roses.

I love you. I forgive you. I’m sorry.