Save A Flower
by Steve Eberling
Light abruptly fell on everything in the room as an old man flicked the switch on the wall. The woven, hemp rug seemed first to catch and then reflect the light from browns and reds illuminated by the bulb above. In its simplicity the rug dominated the room and pulled the eye away from faded, tan drapes on dusted, brown walls. Walls were left barren except for the drapes and a single crucifix hanging above the bed. A dresser is separated from it set against the wall across the room. The same brown, blending it into the wall.
“Dawn. Time to get up.” The old man’s voice sounded harsher than intended and cleared his throat.
As a heavy, woolen blanket on the bed is slowly lifted golden hair of a young girl flashes by the light, immediately jerking attention from the rug to where the bed sits. The girl rubs her eyes and pulls corners of her mouth tight in rebellion to harsh glare of the bulb. From behind her tiny fists bright blue eyes begin to focus. Not like his, her voice comes gentle almost too soft to hear across the room’s huge void.
“Morning, Grandpa.”
For a moment just stared at the tiny lass dwarfed by vastness of the room and the bed’s appearance with the woolen blanket. Her features are small except for blue eyes, captivating with innocent curiosity. Her yellow hair strands across a delicate nose and thin lips. Not at all like silvery grey hair closely cropped, leaving grey eyes and long nose stand for themselves against his wrinkled face. Looks at her hardly moving, wondering how she could be his granddaughter.
“Are the cows awake now?” Her voice startles him bringing eyes down to center of the rug. He promised this morning she could help feed the cows.
“Yes lass. Get your breakfast now.” Lifting his eyes from the floor, pauses, then turns back to the kitchen.
Aroma of coffee smells good mixed with scent of bacon frying over blue flames of the old stove. Reaches listlessly sliding a pot of coffee to another burner. Turns the front knob on the white stove to extinguish flames no longer needed and sits at the table waiting for grounds in the rich coffee settle in a porcelain cup.
The kitchen is a friendlier room. Faded yellow curtains hang beside two windows across from each other on adjacent walls, tied back letting sun beginning to rise from behind rolling New Hampshire hills stream in highlighting blue and white cupboards and a red checkered cloth on the table. His wife had redecorated the kitchen before passing away. Although paints and colors are faded from many years of sunshine through the windows and some neglected grease and dust, these colors still give the kitchen life. She died before repainting the bedrooms seeming of a different house as the kitchen.
Thought often of his wife. His granddaughter reminds a lot of her, and knew his daughter did too.
Once, innocence and beauty of daughter and wife were pride and joy. They looked alike, long hair and delicate features telling everyone the child was her mother’s daughter. Loved his wife with gentle nature and often stood in awe. At these times being very quiet not knowing what to say, never truly understanding her nature. When she was sad, uncertainty forced strength, forced not to reveal weakness, and grey eyes stared, voice becoming harsh. These actions weren’t right, but couldn’t act another way, often taking long walks at night praying for understanding.
Did not take long for the little girl to finish breakfast, grab her grandfather’s hand to hurry down where the cows are kept. These cows are used to being fed earlier. But this morning waited for granddaughter to finish breakfast. Cows being restless from delay sits her on a railing for protection from restless hoofs where she watches with enjoyment, never taking those blue eyes off him. Sensing importance, grain and hay are filled in troughs with pride.
After his wife left, their daughter was sent away to school but pleasures a child brings were missed.
Cows watered and fed, returns to his granddaughter putting her back on the ground. She wants to play by the creek. He smooths her hair in consent. As the young girl runs across the meadow watches from shadows of the barn.
Recalls his daughter now before leaving. Hated doing it, but how could he raise a child without understanding unable to give her mother? It was a school for girls. Sure it was best that way but often questions the decision.
It is now almost time for lunch and Dawn has not yet come back. Grandfather begins to worry and begins to the creek when sees her across the meadow, walking slowly, not looking up. Her face is dirty and as she nears tear stains appear on her cheeks. Head bowed and in hand carries several wilted flowers. More nervous now, afraid she maybe stumbled falling by the creek.
His voice is softer and for once did not display strength. “What’s the matter, Dawn?”
“Grandpa, I picked these flowers by the creek for you but they died because of me.”
“No, lass.” The gentleman thought hard for something and say and ease her sorrow being no good with words. “These flowers were picked for a reason they understand. Let’s put them in water and pray for them.”
“What will we pray?”
“What your mother taught you.” Paused, looks at granddaughter with grey eyes and feels harshness coming into his voice. “Your mother taught you a prayer, didn’t she?”
“Oh yes!” exclaimed the girl, and for the first time now entering the house smiles. “It’s very pretty. Would you like to hear it, grandpa?”
Nods and the girl’s eyebrows tighten thinking of a poem her mother taught her.
“Fled to the meadow to find who I am
Rocks, trees and wind knew what to say
Who could I be but part of today”
Looking at her grandfather she is met by his stare. Feels anger flowing through his face and hands. Their daughter always seemed to fight what he tried to teach her, but now she ruined her daughter with poems evading church and spoke in riddles. Changes appeared in his daughter soon after being sent away to school, talking metaphysics and philosophy. Meeting at the train station once found she cut her hair, wearing a skirt hemmed above her knees. She no longer seemed to remind him of his wife.
Dawn’s voice invaded his concentration. He is glad. Thoughts like these were best kept to themselves. “I would like to bury these flowers by the creek. Could I grandpa? Would you like to come?”
“After lunch, child.”
After lunch Dawn went back to the creek alone because a few worn boards in the barn needed repair. Mainly retired but kept a few Jersey cows from the dairy they once owned. Thought of selling them all, but having nothing to do was scary and these few cows gave meaning to life. Mentioned her and her offspring could come back now being divorced, but knew they would never leave the city. Still loved his daughter and thought of her often. She reminds of his wife despite objections. Takes her daughter to visit on occasion and sometimes stays with her. The aged man enjoys watching them together, always kidding around, playing games and laughing. Dawn was becoming much like her mother. Promised not to change that.
Nailing the last board in place, Dawn comes running in, breathless, full of enthusiasm. Grabs his hand and beckons to follow. She does not explain what she wants, but follows for curiosity and delight in the lass leaves no choice. She leads across the meadow to where the creek runs slowly. There she runs to the base of an oak tree, grins while pointing toward a tiny red orchid barely in blossom.
“See the flower I found? Isn’t it pretty, Grandpa? I’m going to water it every day so it will grow to be the prettiest flower in the whole meadow.”
The farmer could not help but smile back. Wants to hold his granddaughter but leaves her innocence blending with a small red orchid magnified by surrounding green grass and shiny, muddy creek. Dandelion gold accents the beauty beneath the tall oak.
