Love Bites: Flowers, No Card

I almost forget to buy flowers. Bringing flowers seems like the kind of thing you do when you visit a grave. It’s what adults are meant to do. I don’t think my grandfather would’ve really cared what kind of flowers I buy. Still, I hover. It matters to my grandmother. Red star-shaped petals flash against dark green leaves as I stand in line. The cashier smiles politely as she rings up my total. 

My grandmother’s eyes – cornflower blue like my father’s – light up when she sees me, like they always do. I lay out breakfast for her: porridge, a ripe mandarin I take care to peel, and coffee with a touch of milk. She asks me what it is we’re doing; I tell her we’re visiting my grandfather. I make no mention of the fact that we’ve already had this conversation.

She tries to leave the house without a jacket; with a bit of convincing she puts one on. For a moment the only sound in the taxi is the low hum of the engine. “This is my granddaughter, she’s visiting from out of town.” The taxi driver smiles, mildly amused. My grandmother always makes sure to introduce me to anyone we meet.

Wet grass squelches under worn boots as I help her steady herself in front of my grandfather’s grave. I lay the flowers down on the damp dirt, taking care to place them according to her exact specifications. I wish I’d gotten a card, or something. Anything nice. 

Her face breaks out into a smile. “Thank you for taking me, the flowers are perfect.” It catches me off guard. I disappoint myself all the time, yet I never seem to disappoint her.

“Of course.”