Grief And Flowers

This summer, three days after my father passed away, I received an unexpected gift; a very particular bunch of flowers. Hypnotized by grief, I moved through the fog of these early days at the speed of mud, collecting the cards and flowers sent with love, promising myself that I would feel gratitude later, that right now, feeling nothing was the best I could do. I spent most of this time living inside my thoughts, pretending to be aware of my surroundings.  Memories of my dad tumbled out in front of me like stolen candy for a sleepover, dumped out of a pillowcase on my brain’s floor. I didn’t know which one to enjoy first or if I should enjoy them at all. I looked out at the world through empty eyes and traveled from A to B with the clunky elegance of a marionette whose master was smoking a cigarette with one hand and absentmindedly manipulating the strings with the other. Somewhere in the dense middle of this loss, I had missed a phone call.  A florist had left me a message; another lovely bunch of flowers had been left at my side door. While I had the occasion to receive the flowers, I had no side door. He was obviously confused.

The message came to my phone while I had been out dropping my oldest son at the movies.   When I pulled into the driveway, still dazed from the solitary drive home, I wiped the tears that had snuck up on me and prepared to step out of the car and see flowers.  Instead, I looked up to see my youngest son jumping up and down in hysterics because the dog had been stung by a wasp. With no time to think, I scooped the dog up, squeezing him gently and whispering calmly in his ear as he cried and writhed in pain.  After researching doggy first aid, cutting back the hair around the bite, and applying a paste of baking soda and water, I cradled my pup in my arms and relaxed into our mutual sadness. Wrapped up in a towel, I lay the dog on the couch to rest then set off to rescue the flowers from whatever door they had been left at.

No flowers.  Not in the front, not in the back, not at the neighbors.  And not at a side door that I didn’t have. I called the florist. He repeated back to me an address similar to mine, but not mine.

“What can I tell you, whoever sent them to you put the wrong address.  You can go get them.”

Idiot.

I wanted the flowers.  I wanted to know who cared enough.  I wanted to hear from people I loved in case it would make me feel better.  I was trying to feel better instead of this other thing. What I didn’t want to do was go hunt for the flowers.  I didn’t want to pull up in someone else’s driveway and take flowers that should have come straight to me.  I didn’t want to look like I wanted this love. And frankly, I didn’t want to make small talk with a neighbor I hadn’t met before.  Not today.

I drove up to the address the florist gave me and looked expectantly down the driveway at the side door. I didn’t see any flowers.  I walked up the driveway just to double check. The door was propped open and I could hear a man’s voice talking on the phone to the florist. I knocked on the old screen door and it rattled like nails in a tin cup, shocking us both. A pleasant looking man with white hair and an equally white moustache finished his sentence, hung up, and turned to me.

“Carol?”.

We spoke about the mix-up, he, with a pleasant polish accent, and me, with a slight quiver in my voice. I apologized for the mistaken delivery and he said ‘no problem’ and that he had just wanted to bring them in from the heat.  I thanked him and he introduced himself as Mark.

“Anyways, now we meet.  I live here 20 years.” 

 “Me too.” I said, not knowing if I could carry on small talk much longer, thinking of my hurting dog wrapped in a towel, and my hurting insides wrapped in nothing.

He told me multiple stories of mistaken deliveries to his home over the years and went through all the riveting scenarios of how his address could be mixed up and confused for another.  I thought my silence would bring this moment to an end and I would soon drive home with my overheated flowers.

“I lose my wife four years ago.  I’m just now starting to come back to happy.  I don’t know, it’s in my nature, I will come back.” he said, looking off into the distance as if he were explaining a painting to a child, knowing the child would not be listening.  I was listening.

Like an inventor struck with an idea, he thrust his hand in the air and said “You hold the door, I’ll show you a picture”.  I stood in the heat, holding the side door open, hugging the flowers that had been sent to me because my dad died. 

He brought back a picture of a beautiful, smiling brunette with glasses and a breezy summer dress on, smiling as she peeked out from under a garden trellis dripping with bright pink flowers.

“Beautiful” I said, “The flowers, and your wife.”

“Can you see the marks on the thing?” he said as he traced the edges of the photo with his finger.  “It’s where I always mwah mwah on her picture every day.” He kissed the photo madly to show me how he does it.  No inhibition, no shame at still loving his lost wife and no thoughts of ever letting this ritual go.

“This is where the photo was taken.  I show you.”

As if we had to catch a bus, he pushed me toward his backyard and we scurried across the uneven driveway.  A colourful, tidy garden, with hanging planters, trickling fountains and wandering vines appeared out of nowhere - a stark contrast from the tires and car parts that lay lifeless on the asphalt steps away .

“Oh you have a fountain.  How beautiful!” I bubbled, truly surprised.

“Yes.  We used to have fish but the weasels come in and arrrgghhh arrrrghhhh arrrgghhh.” he said making animated chomping sounds with his mouth that sent his bushy white moustache bouncing across his top lip like an actual weasel.

“Oh dear.” I said, not knowing how else to acknowledge the horror.

“Now I have a bunny.  I try to feed it because I don’t know how it survives.” He pointed to a large stubby carrot he had left in the grass.  We toured the garden and he showed me which plants were easy to care for and which ones needed work. All of them his wife’s favourites. He said he liked to let things grow.

“You know cutting is like going against the nature.  See here, it just goes poof!”. A large hydrangea bush grew up and out wildly, with soft white blooms and deep green leaves, some of the branches so heavy with flowers they drooped like string lights across a patio.

“You see, I have to go whoop and under. Ha ha ha!” he laughed as he showed me how he has to pull aside the thriving bush to get to his BBQ. The effort it takes to get to his grill seemed like a childlike adventure and one he looked forward to, as if someday he might pull back a branch and find his wife sitting, smiling, and waiting for a burger.  

We stood a little longer and I told him about my father and how sad my mom was.  I could only mumble simple things - that he loved music, comedy and driving - anywhere. My parents had been married 55 years and this was as difficult a moment in life as any for her.  He hung his head and closed his eyes.  

“It will be hard.”

The quiver in my voice came back, a little more obvious now, as I acknowledged that truth. My siblings and I had lost our dad, our head-of-household, a part of ourselves that was unique to him.  My mom had lost her best friend and the person she had built a life with.

My mom and dad, 5 years ago with the grand kids

We walked back up the driveway, me still holding the flower arrangement in my arms, him still clutching the picture of his wife. We shared the sun on our backs, the silence, and the comfort of our grief. The square box of the flower arrangement dug into my skin leaving deep raw grooves in my forearms.  It felt good. Real. I wondered how this would all end when suddenly Mark darted back inside the house.

“Wait here!”

He came back out seconds later with 4 more photos in his hand, still holding on to the first one.  One of the photos was of his wife from 1977, in a white bikini, looking back over her shoulder with her arms stretched up, lifting her brown hair into a messy pile, like a pin-up model from days gone by.

“Whoa!” I said.

“She was a figure skater. My friends say, “you want to find a girl with the nice shape, go to a skating rink.” I laughed because I believed him.

The picture he was most proud to show me was one of his wife in Poland as a two year old.

“That’s lovely.  It’s like she was born for you.” I said.

“No, no, no.  I was born for her.” His smile thinned out and a faint mist covered his friendly eyes.  We repeated our names to each other so we would never forget. I told him my address, inviting him to stop by anytime.  And I meant it. We smiled at each other and I headed back down the driveway, knowing it was time to leave before things got really messy and my new friend and I ended up sobbing on the ground next to the debris in his driveway, staring at the flowers in his yard and sharing the carrot meant for a wild rabbit. 

I may not know yet how to be without my dad, but whether Mark knows it or not, he showed me that day how to stay near my dad.  Mark held his wife in his hand, in every flower of that garden and every beat of his stories. I’m not quite ready to talk about my dad but when I am, look out.  I will honour my dad’s memory by loving him out loud. I’ll share memories, mwah mwah his photo and talk about him as if he has just left the room.  I’ll play his favourite songs, laugh at his favourite comedians and maybe collect a couple of speeding tickets in his honour. 

When I got home from Mark’s and looked at the empty towel on the couch, I knew my dog was okay and off being a dog again.  I placed the flowers on the kitchen table and unwrapped the sweating cellophane so the flowers could breathe again. I leaned in to smell the bouquet and thought of Mark in his wild garden and knew I that I would be okay too.

I don’t know who this delivery guy really works for but one thing is for sure, there was no mistake with the address that day.  The flowers went exactly where they were meant to go.

By Carol Sloan

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