Spike And His Flowers

Dad And His Flowers 

There is nothing quite as powerful as the hand of a father’s grip. I would know, for Spike had the grip of a bear. A grip that was forged through pain and neglect as well as love and discipline. Those were the same hands that pushed me forward once I met him while times were down. I can still remember how high he raised me from the kissing waters of the pool when I was just six years small, and the smile that conquered his face that day. A face once made of stone. We both share that same face - one of solace and regret. 

Spike was searching for something once we flew out to his home: Charleston. Out by a lone and elongated road that stretched several to a dozen miles, we stood in front of a sea of flowers. A collage of orange, and red, and pink, and yellow that bathed the surface of this gravesite. How something so radiant could sprout above the deceased fascinated me. It was truly a sight to behold, and a reminder that life can be beautiful. Other than the sweat from my brow leaking to my dry lips, my heart could feel the tug of Spike's. The sheer glance of disappointment and shame blending together to paint his face a bleaker color of brown.

That summer eve, the sun lowered its eyelids while my father’s continued sagging. Spike grew tired. Hell, from when we met at the airport, he had the face of someone who was ALWAYS tired. But...he kept marching onward. "Come on, son. We're here." His words of encouragement grew pale as they matched his buzzing nest of conflicting thoughts, and he wasn't alone. I still rested my head in the front of his Lexus, and I couldn't be bothered with the idea of being called that by a man who left a huge chunk of questions in my life. 

I gazed as Spike stood in mystery underneath the shade of the weeping willow and he hadn’t said a peep. His lanky figure stood out near the bulky tree, and as the only living being - other than myself - visiting a grave during summer vacation. He was as inquisitive as he was pragmatic – a WISE man, to some have told me. Most of the folks who knew of him would act as though there wasn’t a single issue that could not be fixed. 

But this situation was rather different, because Spike couldn't locate his father's marker. I left the car behind to take a step into the pool of flowers to reach my father. I saw his hands trembled into a fist. "Damn...I can't..." he struggled to identify the words. I could only imagine what was racing in Spike's head. The man that was his father - my grandfather - was someone important to Spike, but I couldn't guess as to why. According to him, William was a quiet man and quite recluse. 

"Willie 'Cheetah' Mayes". He muttered with a smile as he tossed a rock. 

"Excuse me?" I snorted as I rendevouzed by the weeping willow. "Why 'Cheetah'? Cuz he's black?" 

"Boy!" He bumped my chest. "That's your grandfather. We called him 'Cheetah'. Man, any and everywhere this brother would go - you couldn't stop him, you couldn't keep up with him, and you could never - I mean NEVER - make him late. Whether it's work, or a family gathering, or its to play cards with his buddies at the nightclub, Cheetah don't play." There was light sparkling beneath the surface of his cheeks. He honored this man, so I guessed I had to as well. 

"Wait, pop." It felt weirdly comforting to reinsert myself into Spike's life. Time created a gap between the two of us across states. I could pick up the phone, but every moment felt heavy. Something as simple as asking how his day went would be weighed with anxieties I never knew I had. "Isn't grandpa the same guy who was rarely home? Not to be disrespectful to the deceased or anything like that." I chose my words as best as I could, and my dumb question dimmed that spark within the old man's eyes. He planted both hands on his hips and continued searching. 

"Come on, son. Let's find that marker." 

At the time, I didn't understand Spike's resolve in finding the grave of a man that left him, ignored him, left him again, just to return home and further drown my father's light in his own shadow. I never hated Spike for not being in me and my mother's life. For twenty odd years, I mustered the resolve to see him for who he was instead of who I imagined him to be. I felt the weight of his hand pressure my back as we treaded through the sea of flowers togehter. In spite of his grief, he smiled as we shared a few laughs together. So much time missed out, because of "life". 

As our journey through this open field continued, our knees were tickled. Dusk was creeping as shadows expanded. Regardless, my father groaned as he placed his palm against the base of the weeping tree. “C’mon, man...” he sighed as his grey shirt darkened from the sweat. Without him saying the words, I felt the shame that boiled his blood as he walked towards the edge of the field; with only his back to me. I patted his back and tried to uplift his spirits.  

“Yo! Tell me more about Cheetah, pop.” My heart felt conflicted for Spike. There stood a man I only met a week ago over a cup of coffee, and someone who wanted to honor his father with as much light as he could possibly gather, and Cheetah was simply nowhere to be found. I didn't know what to do or what to say. Spike swam in the silence of the field. "Pop?" Still no answer. 

"My father once told me 'Don't go bringing me flowers when I'm gone. Bring me flowers while I'm still here.' I just wish I thought to bring Cheetah some flowers before he passed, you know?" After he shook his head, Spike patted my shoulder and decided to leave the gravesite to the mother nature. I had a different idea.

Quickly, I kneeled before the flowers and clapped my hands together gently. "Please don't come after me for this." I plucked a few flowers, the reds, the oranges, the yellows, and pinks, and I called out for Spike. "Pop! Wait up." He stopped to turn around as I placed the family of flowers into the palms of his restless hands. "I know it's last minute, pa, but I got somethin for ya." 

His eyes traveled from his hands to my eyes. He pulled me in for a hug - a bear hug. I have never been squeezed so hard before that moment.